Burnt Offerings
by starry19
Summary: Epilogue Added - Now complete "The question was: how much was he willing to sacrifice to save her life? If it was a trade, his life for hers, then there would be no hesitation from him. But, as he had learned, there were things much worse than death." Jane/Lisbon
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Alright, I gave into the harassing messages. This is a multi-chapter. For the moment, it's slated for 10 or so chapters, though that may change as I go. I'm shooting for weekly updates, but bear with me.

Disclaimer: If I owned them, do you think I'd be writing fanfiction?

Summary: "The question was: how much was he willing to sacrifice to save her life? If it was a trade, his life for hers, then there would be no hesitation from him. But, as he had learned, there were things much worse than death."

Burnt Offerings

Chapter One

Most days, Patrick Jane was happy to be where he was. Although he would never admit it to anyone, there was something intrinsically satisfying about delivering justice to those who deserved it most. Especially when the killers were so damn confident that they would never be caught.

And then they walked into his trap, arrogant and egotistical. It was sometimes difficult to keep the smirk off his face.

He understood the appreciation of their victims' families. After all, he knew what a lack of justice, of closure, could do to a person. Every time they closed a case, he felt like one more person could go on living. Could get on with their life and not end up like him.

Today, however, he caught himself wishing he was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

When children were brought into their caseload, it was never easy for any of them. He and Rigsby were fathers, but the rest of the team felt the evil almost as deeply.

The psycho they were pursuing was particularly monstrous, the black cloud he left in his wake settling over them. There had been three victims before the CBI took jurisdiction.

No matter what they believed in, every person on the team had taken at least one moment to pray that they would be in time to prevent a fourth, Jane included. It wasn't logical, not at all, but he had directed a brief, silent plea towards whatever God Lisbon worshipped.

Their prayers had not been answered.

Grace broke down in tears at the scene, turning her face into Rigby's shoulder. Cho went the opposite way, his face looking as though it had been carved from stone. Lisbon had bitten her lip hard enough to draw blood, but had continued directing the investigation.

Mercifully, he had managed to detach himself emotionally from the situation. Otherwise, he would have been screaming.

As the crime scene techs scampered over the dead leaves and blood-spattered ground, Lisbon came to stand next to him. Her shoulders were shaking, but there were no tears, not yet. She was holding herself together for the sake of the team, and for the sake of their victim. Crying wouldn't catch a killer.

He reached out tentatively to touch his fingers to her back. It was a light touch, almost insubstantial, but it was a way to let her know that he was there, if she needed him.

And it seemed that she did. For a moment, she leaned into him, and he curled his arm around her waist. He hid his hand under her jacket, knowing she would hate to show weakness in front of anyone but him. To the casual observer, they would just be standing very close, which wasn't unusual.

"It's alright," he whispered, lips brushing her hair. "We'll catch him."

It didn't escape him that this was the conversation they had after every Red John case. This time, he was doing the comforting, something that wasn't normally his role.

"You bet your ass we will," she murmured back, trying to lace her voice with bravado he knew she didn't feel.

Cho approached them, and Jane tightened his arm briefly before releasing her.

"Techs think they have something, boss," Cho said, only the tension in his jaw giving away how uneasy he was.

Lisbon sniffed once, then followed her second in command into the woods surrounding them, Jane close on their heels.

Enjoying the game now, confident of his success and intelligence, the killer had gotten sloppy. He had overlooked a few critical details, one of them being an understanding of how little DNA it took to get a match in the database.

When their suspect walked through the doors of headquarters, flanked by two police officers, Jane wondered how many agents were considering shooting the son of a bitch before he even made it into the interrogation room.

With a sigh, he picked up his slightly rumpled jacket from the back of the couch. Serial killers liked to play games with the police who questioned them. Jane could play games better than anyone, however, and the sooner they got a confession, the sooner the man would pay for his crimes.

For there was no doubt in Jane's mind that they had found their killer.

He watched, almost absently, as Carl Sanderson hung himself with the rope Jane offered. Once he knew he was caught, Sanderson grinned, acknowledging his defeat with a nod to Jane, one master manipulator to another.

Jane's skinned crawled.

Lisbon took down the confession, visibly paling as Sanderson included as many details as he could remember, vindictive in his failure.

When the forms were signed, Jane left the room, holing up in Lisbon's office to wait for her.

It would be easy enough to hand Sanderson off to Cho or Rigsby for official charging and processing. But that wasn't the sort of person Lisbon was. Sanderson had disquieted her immensely, his actions nearly bringing her to tears at a crime scene, and his prolific confession probably almost making her ill. She was going to make sure the man didn't walk away with the impression that he had bested her.

It it were possible, she would walk him all the way to the gates of Hell.

He stretched out on her couch, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. She was going to be a wreck when she got back. Maybe he could talk her into dinner. It didn't seem likely; he didn't have much of an appetite himself.

Still, he wasn't going to just let her go home. It was his unofficial job to worry about Teresa Lisbon, and this was one responsibility he took seriously. Someone needed to make sure she ate, or didn't consume lethal amounts of caffeine.

Currently, it was looking like the food and coffee situation was going to be beyond his control, so he figured about all he could do was try to make her smile before she left.

He heard her footsteps for about ten seconds before he saw her. She didn't comment on his presence in her office, acknowledging him with the barest of glances before shutting the door and pulling the blinds closed.

She sat at her desk, head in her hands for a moment, before yanking open her desk drawer and rummaging for the tequila he knew was there. Pouring two shots, she rose again, moving to stand in front of him.

"Shut up and drink it," she said flatly, holding out a glass.

He almost smiled. "Cheers."

Jane wasn't a huge fan of tequila on good days, but the burn of the liquor was almost soothing. Lisbon collected his glass and set it next to hers on the desk before flopping gracelessly beside him on the couch.

"Are we back to case-closed liquor instead of pizza?" he asked lightly, poking her.

"Pizza doesn't have the ability to make you forget awful things," she replied, eyes closed. "I hate serial killers," she added.

"Me, too," he said dryly.

"Sorry," she said, instantly contrite. Her lashes fluttered open.

"For what?" he wanted to know. "I don't have a corner on the hating-serial-killers market, Lisbon. And this particular scum is worthy of a whole lot more contempt than you and I have to give, so hate away."

She let out a breath, sinking further back into the couch cushions. Their shoulders were almost touching. "I'd ask if today could be get any worse, but I'm worried God would see that as some sort of personal challenge."

He laughed. "We got the bastard, Lisbon. Our day could have been much worse. Hold on to that."

Jane knew she was beating herself up over not catching Sanderson before he took his fourth victim. She was mentally going through the case files, wondering what she had missed that could have led them in the right direction, could have saved a child's life. What she wouldn't focus on was how many other lives she had managed to protect.

"Look at me," he said softly. She did, both of their heads resting against the back of the couch. "You did a good job today. No one could have done better."

"Not good enough," she whispered, a single tear sliding down one pale cheek.

He brushed it away with his thumb. "Don't you dare blame yourself for this. Sac PD had this case for six months. We had it for three days, and we nailed the guy. Take some comfort from that."

Her expression told him precisely what she thought of his little speech.

"Alright then," he said abruptly, reaching for the tequila again. "Where words fail us, alcohol takes over."

The second shot was more potent than the first, or so he thought.

As he took her shot glass, Lisbon finally smiled. "I hope I don't get pulled over on my way home."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you drunk? On a mere two shots of tequila? I expected better from you."

She gave an outright laugh, he his lips turned upwards in response. "I'm not even close, Jane. But tequila does have a distinctive aroma to it. One patrol cops are good at detecting."

"Meh," he told her. "You've had two drinks. It's not like you've been bathing in it." He leaned in, nose almost touching her neck. The sudden hitch of her breath made him smile. Very deliberately, he sniffed. Loudly. "I can't smell a thing," he assured her. "Just cinnamon."

Her smile was a little forced this time, and he wondered if he had crossed a line. But the pulse beating in the base of her throat told him she didn't exactly object to his proximity. That was good, because invading her personal space was becoming one of his favorite activities lately.

His gesture had just unnerved her a bit, that was all.

"Well," she finally said, "if Patrick Jane, Super Detective, thinks I'm okay, then I must be."

He gave a long-suffering sigh. "It's about time you learned to trust me, woman."

She stretched her legs, and he knew she was getting ready to leave. It was disappointing, but he had given her no reason to stay.

Sure enough, she rose slowly to her feet, replaced the tequila, and reached for her coat. Her movements screamed exhaustion, and he hoped she would make a point of sleeping in tomorrow.

He stood as well, following her to the door. "I'll walk you to the elevator."

She shrugged. "Do you want me to lock my office, or are you coming back here?" Her calm acceptance of him in her private domain, unsupervised, made him want to grin.

"Do whatever you want," he told her. "It's not like I can't pick the lock in two seconds anyway." Besides, he had stolen a key, years ago. She didn't need to know that, though.

They took the long way to the elevators, Lisbon peering into the bullpen to check that her team had left for the night. Jane knew that she was glad they had headed out; it hadn't been a good day for anyone.

While they waited for the elevator car to reach their floor, Jane shoved his hands in his pockets. "Going to finish getting drunk when you get home?" he asked, nonchalantly.

She frowned thoughtfully. "Not a bad plan," she said. "In fact, I think I will. Thanks for the idea."

"Anytime."

The elevator arrived with a quiet ding. Regretfully, he watched her step inside and push the button for the main floor.

"Have a good night, Lisbon," he said, giving her a small smile.

"You, too. Try to sleep sometime," she replied, eyes serious.

"Yes, dear." He almost rolled his eyes, but repressed the urge. The door started to slide shut, but he stopped it with his hand. "Let me know when you get home, alright?"

She stared.

"Well, you've been drinking. It's my duty as your friend to make sure you arrive safely at your destination." He knew very well she was perfectly fine to drive, but it was just another excuse to hear from her. One more little bit of contact that he would relish.

"Whatever," she said, and he stepped away from the door, knowing she would do what he requested.

He watched until the sliding door covered her completely, then slowly walked back to her office.

Lisbon would be her normal self in the morning, he knew, and she would never bring up what happened again. Hands down, she was the strongest person he had ever met. Strong enough to keep going when all she wanted to do was put her head down on her desk and shut the door.

But that was Lisbon. Devotion to duty, and all of that.

He stretched out on the couch, arms wrapped around one of the throw pillows. A very good purchase, this couch. Part of the time, it even smelled like Lisbon. In fact, if he inhaled now, he could detect a slight touch of cinnamon.

Forty minutes later, his phone vibrated with a message. It taken a little longer than he expected for her to get home, but there was just no predicting Sacramento traffic.

Smiling, he flipped his phone open, eager to see whatever smart-ass remark she had sent him. It was a picture message. A little bemused, he pressed the download button and waited.

Maybe it was a picture of her giving him the finger. That sounded like something she would do.

The picture finished loading.

In the space of a second, the grin slid from his face, replaced with complete and utter horror.

The picture was of Lisbon's living room. He recognized the white furniture and the artwork above her small desk.

On the wall behind the couch, a smiling red face leered at him.

AN: Ahhh! A cliffhanger! Thoughts? Liked it? Hated it? You're coming to take my computer so I stop writing crap like this?


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: I said weekly updates. I am an overachiever.

When I outlined this story, chapter two was something totally different. Additionally, I deleted and re-wrote it about three times. Lisbon's voice is more difficult for me to get right, and I'm kind of a stickler for authenticity. I'm still not sure about it, but I think it's about as good as it's going to get.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed and/or followed Chapter One. You make me smile in a vaguely psychotic manner!

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine. But we do have play dates every now and then.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter Two**

It had been a long time since she had let a case get under her skin like their current one had. Archie Bloom had pulled at her heart, but it had been years since she had almost broken down at an actual crime scene.

She'd had to fight the urge to turn fully into Jane's embrace, to give up and let him support her weight. She knew he was willing to carry her for as long as she needed.

Instead, she'd had to be strong enough for all of them. For one brief moment, she had surrendered to her fragility, Jane's hand at her waist. That was all she got. She was the boss, and she needed to be untouchable.

Her resolve had further been tested in the interrogation room. Listening to a serial murderer of children confess his crimes had been one of the most horrific things she had heard. The look in Carl Sanderson's eyes as he described his acts, the pleasure, the satisfaction...she wanted to run from the room and be physically ill. Sanderson knew what he was doing to her, of course. The man's eyes never left hers, carefully ignoring Jane sitting stoically at her side.

Homicidal eyes, Jane had once said. Full of violence and malevolence.

And so she had a point to prove. She personally walked Sanderson to processing, using the triumphant, sarcastic tone she always adopted when they had nabbed a particularly elusive suspect.

She was the law, and he was evil, and he needed to know that she wasn't about to back down.

Once she was back in the elevator, Sanderson safely ensconced with the prisoner transport from county, she had taken a few moments and attempted to settle her nerves.

She wanted a shower. It was almost like Sanderson's contemptible spirit had marked her physically. Clinically, she noted her shaking hands. She was going to need to find a way to get herself under control before she drove home.

Jane was waiting in her office, sprawled across the couch. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved around the room, efficiently closing the blinds.

It would be easy enough to have a breakdown. Jane would keep it to himself. It had taken nearly a decade to get to this point, but she finally knew that he wouldn't use her weaknesses against her.

Strange, how he seemed to come to that conclusion about her years before.

He had been wrong, though. Desperately needing his help to solve a case, she had lied to him about meeting the victim's family, knowing the sight of a fourteen-year-old without a father would bring Jane on board.

She was a horrible person, but that couldn't be helped at this point in her life. Still, she touched the crucifix around her neck gently, an old habit when she thought something particularly sinful.

Sighing loudly, she sat down. Almost immediately, she realized she wanted to be closer to Jane. Though she couldn't throw herself in his arms the way she sometimes wanted to, she could definitely sit close enough to feel his body heat, smell his cologne.

She had grabbed the tequila then, stopping just short of pouring the shot down Jane's throat. He humored her, and she relaxed slightly as she flopped down next to him.

Eventually, no matter how much she wanted to stay right where she was, she needed to go home. Jane walked her out, the gesture oddly protective.

"Let me know when you get home, alright?" he'd whispered, and though his explanation was light, the look in his eyes was weighty.

No one could do weighty like Patrick Jane.

Deciding to go with his suggestion of getting drunk all the way, she stopped by the grocery store. She had started the night with tequila; might as well finish it off that way, too.

Once she walked in the doors to the supermarket, however, she realized she was out of just about everything in her apartment, not just hard liquor. Sighing, understanding she was about to commit the cardinal sin of grocery shopping while hungry, she grabbed a cart.

Jane would be proud, she thought at the checkout. There was actual food, and some of it wasn't even processed. Since she skipped meals so often, she figured that maybe the ones she had should count.

It was later than she anticipated by the time she stowed the groceries in her trunk. She was looking forward to making it home, making a drink, and catching the end of a Vincent Price marathon on TCM.

When she spotted the flashing lights in her parking lot, her heart sank. Even though it wasn't her problem, she knew she wouldn't be able to relax without seeing if there was anything she could do to help out with whatever was going on in the building. She hoped her neighbor, old Mrs. DeLarson, hadn't gotten sick or fallen.

It wasn't until she parked her car that she noticed the CBI vehicles. Jane's Citroen was there as well. She frowned, a bad feeling washing over her. The hair on the back of her neck stood up when she noticed all the lights were on in her apartment.

Moving quickly now, she jumped out of the car, slamming the door. Flashing her badge at the locals, she ducked under the crime scene tape and made her way to the building, heart pounding in her ears.

The first thing she saw was Jane, standing with his back to her, staring at the wall behind the couch. And then she saw what he was staring _at_.

"Oh, my God," she said, horror lacing her tone.

At the sound of her voice, Jane turned, eyes going wide. In three steps, he had crossed the room and wrapped her in a fiercely tight embrace. She could feel the tension radiating from his body. As quickly as he had hugged her, he let go.

His expression became suddenly livid. "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.

"Getting groceries," she said, automatically defensive.

"Answer your damn phone!" His eyes were snapping now.

Too late, she realized she had turned her phone on silent before she had gone into the interrogation room with Sanderson earlier in the day. Pulling it out of her pocket, she saw she had twenty-three missed calls. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Christ, woman," he said, and she knew he had already forgiven her, "you should be sorry."

"Jane," she said, looking back at the hideous red face marring her living room, "what's going on?"

He frowned. "After you left, I got a picture message. I just assumed it was from you and didn't even look at the sender's name." He handed her the device. "This is what I saw."

Her breath caught as she peered at the small screen.

"And then," he went on, voice dangerous again, "you wouldn't—answer – your—phone."

Despite the very real horror she was feeling, she took a moment to be captivated by what she saw in Jane's eyes. He had just spent the past hour and a half thinking that he had lost someone else to Red John.

"I'm sorry," she breathed again.

He pulled her into his arms once more, his face pressed against her hair.

"Oh, my God! Boss!" Grace's voice came down the stairs, and she untangled herself from Jane. It was time to be Agent Lisbon again. It didn't matter if the threat was against her personally tonight.

Grace hugged her, too, Cho and Rigsby at her elbow. Regardless of the situation, it was nice to know she was cared about. But that was moot right now.

"Okay, guys, I'm just fine. Let's work the scene." Immediately, the team snapped into business mode.

"It'd be a good idea for you to go through the place," Cho said. "You can tell us if anything is missing or not where it should be."

She nodded her assent and began combing through her apartment, almost clinically detached. Jane kept close to her side. She wasn't sure what good he thought he was going to do; he had only been to her place a few times, not enough to know if something was off.

The rest of the downstairs was just as she had left it. Abandoning the hubbub surrounding the smiling face, she began to climb the stairs.

"I wonder whose blood is on my wall," she said, quietly.

"I'm just thankful it isn't yours," Jane said, just as softly.

As soon as she walked into her bedroom, she knew there was something wrong. It was nothing blatant, just a sense she was getting. "Someone's been here," she whispered.

She felt Jane tense at her back.

The note was stuck under her pillow, folded in half. There was another smiling face on the outside, as though it was a greeting card. She flipped it open.

_Good thing you weren't here_, it read,_ because I was_.

Wordlessly, she handed it to Jane. He swore loudly.

Discovering her legs were shaking, Lisbon sat on the edge of her bed. Jane sat a few feet away, Red John's note still held loosely in his hand. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized that Patrick Jane was on her bed. _Be careful what you wish for_, she thought.

"Why let me know he was here?" she wondered. "Why not just come back later?"

Jane shook his head. "I'm not sure. Obviously, he's sending a message."

"Why is he sending one to me? I'm not smart enough to play games with him."

He smiled dryly. "Oh, it's not a message for you. It's a message for me."

Before she could ask what he meant, Cho entered the room. "Find anything?"

She sighed. "Unfortunately, yes."

With an expression of immense distaste, Jane reread the note once more before surrendering it to Cho. "I'm sure you'll want to take it to forensics, regardless of that fact that you're not going to find anything."

"Yeah. That's what you do with evidence." Cho turned to his boss. "I think the techs are about done downstairs. I'll let them know they need to sweep the bedroom."

"Great," she said flatly. "Thanks."

She didn't have her apartment back until well after midnight. It was a lost cause, she knew, but she couldn't very well tell the crime scene folks to not do their job.

At some point, she had gone to sit on the couch, the only place in the living room where she couldn't see the brutal hallmark. Jane had rummaged around in her kitchen for a few minutes, returning with two tumblers full of scotch.

"I couldn't find the tequila," he said. Dimly, she remembered she had a trunk full of groceries. It seemed vastly unimportant.

They didn't talk much, both working through what had happened. Things weren't adding up in her brain, but she wanted to wait until they were well and truly alone. It didn't cross her mind that Jane would leave.

As soon as the last blue-jacketed man walked out the door, they began the task of shutting off unused lights and closing the blinds. She had sent the team home hours ago, assuring them that she would be fine. No one looked as though they believed her, but they had gone anyway.

Truth be told, she wouldn't be surprised if they were watching her apartment in shifts, despite her insistence that it was totally unnecessary.

"I'm going to shower," she announced, heading for the stairs again.

Jane nodded. "I'll be here when you're through." He sounded like he was answering a question, and maybe he was. She hadn't said the words, but it was probably all over her face.

She had meant to shower quickly, but the hot water felt too good to race away from. It seemed to wash away a little of the numbness she had been operating in since she walked in her front door that evening. When it was gone, she was forced to come to the unhappy conclusion that she was terrified.

Her home had been invaded. By a fucking serial killer.

It was not the sort of thing that was able to be brushed aside.

She stayed under the spray, letting it hide a few errant tears, until the hot water was gone. Despite the steam in the bathroom, she was chilled as she dried off, and she dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and running pants.

True to his word, Jane was still in the living room, head bowed in a thoughtful pose. Both of their empty glasses were gone, and his jacket was off. He didn't look up until she was sitting beside him.

It was time for them to talk, away from other people, with no fear that what they said would be overheard. The less others knew, the safer they were. Or, in her team's case, the less they would have to lie to authorities.

To her surprise, the first words out of Jane's mouth were concern for her. "How are you doing? You've had one hell of a day."

She curled her legs underneath her. "I suppose it could be worse," she allowed, echoing his words from earlier in the day. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

He laughed, though he didn't sound very amused. "Yes, I suppose it could." His expression lost its levity. "Do you want to talk? Or do you just want to go to bed and worry about this in the morning?"

As he spoke, she realized how utterly and completely exhausted she was. Getting off the couch suddenly seemed a herculean task.

Jane smiled gently. "Bed it is. Are you sure you want to stay here?"

She nodded. "I'll be fine." There was more certainty in her tone than she actually felt.

"Whatever you say," he said, obviously not buying. He read the expression on her face closely. "Oh, you thought I was going somewhere? Not a chance, Lisbon."

She felt obligated to argue with him, no matter that she actually wanted him there. "Really, Jane. I don't need a babysitter."

"Of course you don't." He rolled his eyes. "It's best for both of us if I stay, though. If I'm not here, I'm not going to be able to sleep because I'll be worried. If I'm worried, I'm going to call you every ten minutes to make sure you're alright, and then _no one_ will get any sleep."

"Whatever," she said, pushing herself up. "Do whatever you want. I know you will anyway."

He grinned. "See? It's much easier when you take that attitude."

She started up the stairs, then turned back to him. "Thank you," she said, very quietly.

"Anytime," he said.

As much as she occasionally hated it, Jane's ability to understand much more than she said in words could be a good thing.

With a sigh, she crawled into bed. A small, devious voice reminded her that Red John had touched her pillow, and she sat bolt upright, goosebumps covering every inch of skin. She shoved the offending item off her bed as quickly as though it was a poisonous snake.

He had been in her bedroom. The monster responsible for the deaths of almost thirty people, the heartless, manipulating bastard that had ruined so many lives, had been in her _bedroom_.

What if she had come straight home from work? What would she have found then? Would there be a body to go with the smirking face that was currently watching Jane downstairs?

She hated to think of him sleeping beneath another reminder of what Red John had taken from him. Every time she knew he was in Malibu, her heart broke a little more. She couldn't imagine how alone he felt sometimes.

But he wasn't alone, not tonight, and neither was she. It feel odd to know there was someone downstairs.

At least it was someone she wanted to be there.

_Good thing you weren't here_, he had written. _Because I was_.

A thrill of terror slid down her spine.

She didn't stop to think. "Jane!" she called.

Less than ten seconds later, he was standing in her doorway, eyes wide. "What's wrong?"

Taking a deep breath, she shook her head. "Nothing, sorry. I think I freaked out for a second."

He came all the way into her room. "Why?" he wanted to know, eyes scanning his surroundings. They fell on the pillow that was currently lying discarded on the floor.

She attempted a smile, but it came out all wrong. "Thinking too hard," she whispered.

The corners of his mouth turned down. "Talk to me." His voice held nothing but concern.

She shook her head again. "I'm just being stupid."

Still frowning, he reached for her pillow, then sat beside her on the bed. "Do you always sleep without one of these?" he asked, arms around the bag of feathers.

Evasiveness was the immediate course of action she came up with, but decided against it. Jane could always tell when she was lying or concealing. "Red John was the last person to touch it," she said, quietly, almost ashamed of herself.

A muscle tightened in Jane's jaw for an instant. Then he handed the pillow out to her. "Well, now_ I_ was the last person to touch it, and I hope you don't object terribly to _that_."

She hesitated still.

Jane sighed, exasperation mixed with affection, then surprised her by laying down on top of the covers, pillow beneath his own head. It seemed like he was proving a point; if _he_ could rest on her pillow, _she_ certainly could.

Slowly, she laid back down, turning on her side so that she was facing Jane.

"You know I'm alive because he wants me to be, right?"

His green eyes were unreadable. "The thought crossed my mind, yes."

She frowned. "Why though? Why does he want me alive?"

He sighed. "Teresa, I don't know. And I don't care at this particular moment. All that matters to me is that you are, and that I'm going to keep you that way."

Her expression didn't clear. "What you said earlier...that this was a message for you. What did you mean?"

He took a moment to debate whether or not to tell her; she could see it in his face. "You...are at the very top the extremely short list of people I care about." Beneath the chill of fear, she felt warmth blossom in her heart. "Red John knows that. He's proving to me that he can take away what I care about the most."

"Why?" she asked again, unable to look away from the emotion in his eyes.

"I don't know," he whispered. "And I'm afraid to find out."

They didn't talk after that, merely existed in the same place, listening to the sounds of even breathing.

Although she didn't think it was possible, she drifted off. When she woke abruptly a few hours later, it was to find that she had instinctively curled into the warmth of Jane's body. He was still on top of the covers, but had draped one arm over her.

She wondered if he was pretending to be asleep, then decided it didn't matter. For that moment, he was hers. Everything else would wait until the morning.

AN: No cliffhangers here! But rest assured, we're gearing up for a wild ride. This was just the calm before the storm. Red John has plans, people.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Here we go, folks. Less calm, more storm.

Thank you for the reviews…I'm all smiles.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Okie dokie? Okie dokie.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter Three**

Jane awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of a soft body curled against his. Opening his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of Teresa Lisbon burrowed into his chest. Both of his arms were wrapped around her; he had no idea when that had happened.

He was still on top of the covers, and still wearing his shoes. It didn't matter, not really, but he smiled anyway.

Lisbon's alarm clock told him that it was too early to be awake, but there was nothing for it. His insomnia didn't make exceptions for nights that he was about as emotionally exhausted as any one person could be.

For one whole hour, maybe a little longer, he had thought he'd lost her. Thought that the next time he saw her, she would be a crumpled body on the floor, butchered beyond all recognition.

He wouldn't have survived it.

And then she walked back in the door, and he could breathe again. His body had acted completely of its own accord, pulling her into an almost violent hug. He needed to physically feel her, hear the sound of her heart.

She was here. She was fine.

He never thought he'd get so upset over her actually buying food.

Lisbon frowned suddenly in her sleep, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt. He realized he had been unconsciously tightening his arms and that it was disturbing her otherwise peaceful slumber. Forcing his muscles to relax, he watched her face until it was tranquil again.

The smart thing to do would be to get out of bed, to disentangle himself from Lisbon, and go back to his relentless pursuit of Red John.

It seemed more vital than ever.

He couldn't understand the psycho's apparently abrupt obsession with Lisbon. She'd been working with him for almost a decade; why target her now? It was fairly obvious he cared about her - he'd shot a man for her, for God's sake. There had been a host of less dramatic instances where he'd proven that, too.

Why would he go after her now?

Red John was a frighteningly smart man. He didn't make many mistakes. Killing Lisbon would be a mistake. For Jane, the game would be over. He would be done playing. In point of fact, he would probably be locked away somewhere, either because he would have totally lost his mind, or tried to kill himself, or both.

It was not something he'd be able to recover from. Sophie Miller had put him back together after Angela and Charlotte, but he hadn't healed, not really. The cracks were still there, and losing Lisbon would be his undoing. There would be no coping, no figuring out how to live.

Strange, though, he more he thought about it, the more he wondered if his closeness to Lisbon was the reason she was still unharmed. As much as he had tried to put distance between them on multiple occasions, he'd never been able to hold to his resolution.

It was an interesting idea... In the beginning, he'd held his walls up so tightly that no one saw anything past what he wanted them to see. There was no sense in taking Lisbon then; she meant nothing to him. Things had changed over the years, subtly, gradually.

When he'd shot Sheriff Hardy, Red John would have become aware that he wasn't willing to idly stand by while she was killed. Of course, he could have assumed the same could be said for most of the people Jane worked with. It was probably even true. But Red John would have wondered, just a little, if he cared especially for Teresa Lisbon.

By the time Vegas had happened, and Jane had proven the lengths he was willing to go to protect her, it was too late. Red John finally knew that he'd had the audacity to fall in love again, and that Teresa Lisbon was off-limits if he wanted Jane to continue playing along.

The more he considered it, the more he wondered if his theory was right.

But then why was there a grinning red face adorning Lisbon's living room?

Lisbon was absolutely correct in what she had said the night before. If Red John wanted her dead, she would be dead. He wouldn't have bothered to leave a message, telegraphing his intentions. He would have either waited, or he would have come back.

His best guess was that Red John had figured out a way to use her in some way, and last night was a malignant warning that he had finally turned his attention towards Lisbon.

It felt like a cold fist was clenched around his heart.

He peered intently at the woman in his arms again. Stripped of her badge and gun, she looked so young, and so very vulnerable. Slowly, careful not to jar her, he leaned down and rested his forehead lightly against the crook of her neck for just a moment.

It was too tempting, though, and he pulled back before his control shattered. He was still clinging to the idea that maybe she would find someone not so damaged, someone able to give her everything she deserved.

Someone that would take her far, far away from him and the demons that haunted his every step.

It was probably a futile hope; he knew Lisbon better than anyone, knew her capacity for love, forgiveness, and loyalty. She had wasted an awful lot of those qualities on him. On someone who didn't deserve what she had given him _at all_.

He frowned. No, he certainly didn't deserve her.

Gently, eyes never leaving her face, he unwound himself from her small body and stood up. She immediately rolled into the space he had just occupied, and he couldn't help the tender grin that spread across his face.

Once he reached her kitchen, he remembered that she had come from the grocery store the night before. He snatched her keys up from the desk and headed into the parking lot, taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air. It would be dawn soon.

In the corner of the lot, he spotted Cho's vehicle. He waved at the other man, knowing it would be absolutely futile to tell him to go home. The Serious Crimes Unit took the safety of their boss very earnestly, and he was thankful for that.

He clicked a button on Lisbon's keychain. Plastic bags greeted him as he opened the trunk fully. Sincerely, he hoped that she had come home with her usual rations of nonperishable items, or she had just wasted a lot of money on food she wasn't going to be able to eat.

Scooping up the bags from the compartment, he slammed the lid and headed back inside. Methodically, he rummaged and unpacked, regretfully tossing over half of what he found. Apparently, she was on a new health food kick.

He made eggs. Of course he did, because he was Patrick Jane, and if there were eggs around, he was making them.

Lisbon wandered into the kitchen just as he was adding cheese to the frying pan, still looking half asleep. Her hair was tousled, eyes unfocused.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully. "I made coffee."

She didn't respond, just headed towards the percolating pot. Although he _still_ didn't like the stuff, he had gotten quite adept at making it. A freshly brewed cup could sometimes get Lisbon out her pricklier moods, and he never hesitated to use it as a weapon.

Halfway through her first cup, she finally spoke. "So I didn't just imagine last night?"

"That would be quite the dream," he said, reaching for plates.

"Well," she said, "it was worth a shot."

He laughed, then headed for her tiny table, a plate in either hand. "I cleared some stuff off this thing," he told her, "so that maybe we could use it for its intended purpose."

She followed him, carrying her coffee mug in one hand and forks in the other. "You mean it's not supposed to just hold mail and laundry? I guess I've been using it wrong all these years."

They ate in companionable silence, Lisbon occasionally peering glancing over his shoulder at the smiling face still plastered on her wall. Her expression at those times was intense, calculating.

"Chocolate brown," he said, and her eyes jumped back to him.

"Hm?"

"You should paint that wall chocolate brown. It'd be a great accent color. Besides, I think you'd find it soothing and calming, which is something you need more of."

She almost laughed. "Yeah, maybe I'll paint in all my spare time today."

"You know, no one would blame you if you didn't come into work," he told her, knowing as soon as he spoke that it was a useless statement.

Her eyes hardened. "It's my life that's being threatened, Jane. I'm damn well going to be in on the investigation."

"Yes, I figured you were going to say that." He sighed. "Well, let's get going then. I don't want to be late. My boss is kind of a hard ass."

She made a face at him, but pushed back from the table. Fifteen minutes later, she was coming back down the stairs, pulling her hair up into a bun. He had dumped the plates into the dishwasher by then, and was rolling his sleeves back down.

As Lisbon holstered her gun and attached her badge, he considered asking her to stay home again. He knew what would happen when she got to the office – she would push herself to the brink of exhaustion, check and recheck files until her eyes bled, and wind up passed out on her desk, keyboard pressed into her face.

But at least if she was at work, he could keep a reasonable eye on her. And she would be surrounded by people that cared about her, that would make sure she wasn't about to keel over.

When he looked up, she was staring expectantly at him. "Are you coming? I wouldn't want you to get in trouble with your boss, after all."

He smiled, brushing his thoughts aside, then followed her out the door.

The office was already buzzing when they arrived, phones ringing, the background noises that made up the ambiance of headquarters having an almost soothing effect on him.

The team looked exhausted. Lisbon noticed, naturally.

"I distinctly remember telling you to not keep an eye on me," she said, raising an eyebrow.

"No idea what you're talking about," Cho deadpanned, sipping his coffee.

Jane made a note to buy everyone pizza for lunch. He realized again how fortunate he was to have these people on his side. Well, on Lisbon's side. But she was always on _his_ side, so it was the same thing. Mostly.

Lisbon sighed, visibly changing the subject. "Where are we with this case? Do we know anything about the blood on my wall?"

Grace checked her notes. "Blood is definitely human, but the DNA results will take a few more days, even with the rush we put on them."

She nodded. "Anything else?"

Clearing his throat, Rigsby spoke up. "There was a fingerprint on the note you found under your pillow, boss."

Instantly, Jane felt his guard go up. "Lisbon touched the note. So did I. Are you sure the print doesn't belong to one of us?"

"Definitely not yours," Cho said. "We had the techs compare your prints right away. Of course, we don't know who they belong _to_, but they definitely belong to someone."

That wasn't right, not at all. "Red John doesn't leave evidence," Jane said flatly.

Lisbon frowned as she caught his gaze, her expression mirroring his. "Not ever," she said. "In almost thirty cases. No DNA, no fingerprints. I'm not inclined to think that he's going to start being sloppy now, especially when he didn't even commit a murder."

There was beat while everyone considered that they were talking about _Lisbon's_ hypothetical murder. Jane fought a shiver.

"I agree," Jane said. "We have a fingerprint because Red John wants us to have a fingerprint."

"Okay, but why?" Grace wanted to know.

Jane shook his head. "No way of knowing that until we figure out who the prints belong to." He considered the situation for a moment. "Too bad we have to rely on the fingerprinting guy here. I think I may have irritated him during the whole Hightower incident."

Rigsby ignored the last statement. "What if he really did just get sloppy?" he wanted to know. "Or he just assumed that since we know he never leaves evidence, we'll stop checking for it."

"That'd be a stupid assumption to make," Cho informed him. "But there's always a chance he'll make a mistake."

Jane doubted it, but if the rest of them needed to cling to hope, he wasn't going to judge them.

The only thing left to do was wait.

As it turned out, when Jane was forced to wait when there was a distinct threat hanging over Lisbon's head, he didn't take it well.

He holed up in the attic for a few hours in the morning, scribbling his chaotic thoughts out on paper. The task usually helped him sort through the theories that were chasing each other around in his mind. His conclusions were not very pleasant.

Away from Lisbon though, he was anxious, and so he wandered down to her office. She was drinking coffee and staring absently at her computer screen.

He smiled. Even the consummate professional Teresa Lisbon had been known to be human. His smile faded when he realized she was probably more scared than she was distracted.

"Buy you lunch?" he asked, opening her door without knocking.

She checked her watch. "It's ten-thirty, Jane. I know you're getting old, but do we have to go for the early bird specials?"

He pretended to be affronted. "Old? Please, woman. You wound me." He dropped onto the couch.

"Take it easy," she warned, smirking. "I wouldn't want you to break your hip. I'd have to take you into a field and shoot you."

He dropped the light air. "Doing alright?"

She shrugged. "Just waiting." He could see the strain on her face.

"Maybe we could go buy paint," he suggested. "I was serious about that chocolate brown color. It'd go great, I mean it."

"Yeah," she said, sarcastic again. "Maybe we'll do that, assuming no one is waiting in my apartment to kill me tonight."

At that moment, Grace knocked on the door. Her face was ashen, eyes bright. Immediately, Jane stood up.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lisbon do the same.

Grace took a deep breath. "Fingerprint results are in," she said.

"Already?" Lisbon asked.

"Yeah," the other woman said. "Apparently it was a slow day."

In every situation where something awful was about to happen, Jane felt a thrill of foreboding crawl down his spine. Whatever news Grace had, it was going to be bad, was going to change their lives.

"And?" Lisbon said, voice a touch too loud to be normal.

Grace touched her forehead, a nervous gesture. Her eyes met his, and he swallowed. Hard.

"The print belongs to Angela Jane."

**AN: **Muahaha!


	4. Chapter 4

**AN**: I'd apologize for last chapter's cliffhanger, but I'm not sorry. Also, I had to do some awful research for this installment. I feel very Richard Castle-y, and fervently hope no one ever checks my browsing history.

I will most likely not be writing a tag for Red Dawn (but, hey, sometimes my brain surprises me), so I'm going to say a few things about it. Firstly, someone give Simon Baker an Emmy. Right. Now. Second, you know the picture of the stick figure vomiting rainbows? That was me last night. Until I started shrieking at the end of the show. And then I was all (pardon my internet speak): OMFGakljfdaksdgkjdhg! I still can't form a coherent sentence about it. You're all just lucky this chapter was 95% written before I watched last night's show.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! If I could, I would have Patrick Jane give you all hugs. Squee.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. The end.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter Four**

A dreadful, awful silence filled the room. Lisbon knew there was something she should be doing, some order to give, some step to take, but she found herself utterly unable to tear her eyes away from Jane's face.

He looked like he had checked out mentally. Physically, he was in the exact same position he had been when Grace entered her office – close to the edge of the couch, hands shoved in his pockets. But one look into his eyes, and it was obvious that he had retreated into the dark, twisting recesses of his mind.

She forced herself back to Van Pelt. "There's been a mistake, obviously," she said, voice rough.

Grace shook her head. "I thought so, too. But there wasn't one."

Lisbon glanced over at Jane again. "Run the prints again. I'm not convinced."

"But I already had fingerprinting run them again, and—"

"Run them a third time," Lisbon said, very firmly.

Grace ran her eyes over Jane, too. "Okay," she half-whispered. She turned to leave.

"I don't need to tell you that this absolutely doesn't leave Serious Crimes, do I?" Lisbon asked, instinctively reacting to the stress of the situation. It was almost funny, she thought absently. Before Patrick Jane had invaded her life, she would have already been on the phone to her supervisor. But Jane's paranoia had rubbed off on her over the years, his intrinsic need to keep everything to himself.

"No, boss," Grace said.

After she left the room, Lisbon swiftly closed the office blinds. If Jane was going to have a breakdown, he deserved as much privacy as she could give him.

Slowly, carefully, as though she was approaching a wild animal, she came to stand beside him.

"Jane?" she whispered, relieved when his eyes focused.

With a deep, shaking sigh, he sat down on the couch.

She badly wanted to touch him, but wasn't sure if it would be a welcome thing. Jane could be an island, or something infinitely more unreachable, like the cold peak of a distant mountain. Then she remembered that she had slept in this man's arms the night before, and if anyone had the right to touch him, it was her.

Tentatively, she slid her hand into his, focused on reading the tiny, minuscule reactions that would tell her if she was overstepping the lines. Suddenly, though, he laced their fingers together, his grip fiercely tight. The pressure of his wedding ring against her skin was painful, but she knew that until she head her bones break, she wouldn't let go. She wanted him to understand that he wasn't alone in his grief and shock, that if he needed to lean on her, she would never consider it a burden.

Eventually, his fingers loosened, until he was exerting just enough force to assure her that he wanted their physical connection to continue.

Lisbon took a deep breath. There was no easy way to ask the questions that were on her mind, but they needed to be asked, just the same. "Jane?" she almost whispered. "I'm so, so very sorry for this, but is there any way, any way at all, that your wife…" She trailed off, unsure of how to word her query.

He shook his head almost violently. "It was definitely her," he said, his eyes a million miles and ten years away. "And she was definitely dead."

"Okay." She tried, very hard, to keep her voice as even and as calm as she could. "There are still several explanations as to why her prints were found at the scene, but I'm afraid that none of them are remotely pleasant."

He didn't answer, and she steeled herself for what was going to come next.

"We need to be sure," she breathed.

When he realized what she was saying, his gaze become tortured, wild, broken. This was how he must've looked in the days and weeks after his family was killed, she thought. It wasn't a Patrick Jane she had ever seen before. It was beyond painful, beyond agonizing.

"I'm so, so sorry," she said again, aware that, despite her better efforts, tears were running down her own cheeks.

Strangely enough, it seemed to be her tears that snapped him out of his anguished spiral. With a shaking hand, he reached out to brush the moisture away. At the same time, she saw the telling brightness in his own eyes.

Without thinking, she slid her arms around him, pulling his head down to her shoulder. He didn't shy away, like she had half-expected; instead, he embraced her, hands slipping under her blazer to rest on her back.

"Teresa," he whispered into her skin. She felt him shudder. "Teresa, I know what you need to do…" His breath hitched. "But I _can't_." His voice broke fully on the last word, and she knew he was crying.

She closed her eyes, holding him to herself, rocking slightly as though she was comforting a child. "I know," she told him, lips against his hair. "But I can."

He looked up at her with damp, red eyes, and she swore she felt her heart fracture. Jane read her intentions, her desire to know _how_ Angela's prints were found, to give him some measure of comfort, and her willingness to do this awful thing so that he wouldn't have to.

"Okay," he finally whispered, and she knew that nothing less than absolute trust would have allowed him to utter those two syllables.

Heart in her mouth, she took his face in her hands and brushed a chaste kiss onto his forehead. He just looked so very lost.

"Stay here," she told him.

He nodded, then grabbed at her hands as she stood. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise," she said, very solemnly.

She stood outside her office door for a few seconds, rapidly swiping at her face, before entering the bullpen. She forced herself to be the boss once more, regardless of the tear tracks she knew were plainly visible on her cheeks.

"Cho, you and I are leaving. Rigsby, go canvass my apartment complex for people we may have missed last night. Van Pelt," she said, turning towards the other woman's desk. "Stay here, answer the phones, do whatever, but keep an eye on Jane. Both eyes, actually."

Grace nodded, her gaze shifting towards the direction of Lisbon's office.

Cho didn't speak until they were in the car. "Where are we going, boss?"

She set her jaw. "To exhume a body."

She would always remember that afternoon as one of the worst in her life. It felt sinful, disrupting the hallowed ground of the cemetery. More than once, she prayed for forgiveness. And for strength. She was going to need both.

Bringing Cho had been the right decision. She needed his stoicism, his poker face. Once, just before they cracked the casket, he put a sturdy hand on her shoulder. It was the first gesture of affection she had ever received from him, and so she knew he understood how difficult this was.

Angela Jane was right where she was supposed to be. There was a moment to be thankful for that. And to be more thankful that her husband was far away.

"Check her hands," she heard herself say to one of the forensic technicians. Dimly, she noted that Angela hadn't been buried with her wedding ring. She wondered where Jane was keeping it.

All ten of Angela's fingers were perfectly intact.

"Well, there goes that possibility," Cho said from somewhere to her left.

"I was so sure that…" she began, brows furrowing.

"So was I," Cho said. "How else would that print have gotten there?"

She swore under her breath, mind rapidly sorting through the remaining options, none of which seemed remotely viable. She had seen enough movies where fingerprints had managed to be lifted in a variety of ways, but that was Hollywood.

"There has to be an explanation," Cho went on, looking as frustrated as she felt. "Even after they checked three times, the print still matched Angela Jane. It's not like fingerprints change."

His statement sparked the beginning of an idea in Lisbon's mind, but it wasn't quite _there_ enough yet. Fingerprints didn't change. The print they had pulled from her room matched the ones they had on file for Angela.

But.

What if?

Mind suddenly in overdrive, she spun to talk to the unlucky tech who was waiting for further instructions. "Can you take new fingerprints from Mrs. Jane?" she asked, ignoring how odd _Mrs. Jane_ sounded to her ears.

Cho met her eyes, and she could almost see him catch up to her line of thinking. He frowned for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Right, boss. What if the prints we're comparing to aren't hers in the first place?"

Lisbon shrugged her shoulders, then lowered her voice so that only Cho could hear her. "It's not like Red John hasn't infiltrated our computer systems before."

The tech looked up at them, more than a little confused. "Don't you already have a set of prints?" he asked.

"Humor me," Lisbon told him. "Can you get new ones or not?"

The tech studied Angela's hands for a few seconds. "Maybe," he said, and there was a note of hope in his voice. "Embalmers usually pay close attention to the areas of the body that will be on display at visitations and funerals, the face, hands, stuff like that. Add to that the quality of the casket, and you guys just might get lucky." He scampered off to find his printing kit.

Her second in command turned to look at her. She held up a hand. "I know what question you want to ask. Just wait until we know for sure."

If they weren't Angela's, whose prints did they have?

It was almost five o'clock by the time they reached the office. Despite the time they had already spent at the cemetery, Lisbon had insisted on waiting until Angela was safely reinterred. She had used the opportunity to talk to Jane's wife, not something that she had ever done before.

She apologized for not catching Red John after all these years. And she apologized for falling in love with the woman's husband. She promised to do her best to keep him safe, and to see him through this as best she could.

There was a point where she considered asking Angela to let him go, but it seemed too selfish of a thing to do.

When the last shovel of dirt was smoothed over the opening in the earth, Lisbon said another silent prayer, her heart aching.

Jane was still in her office when she returned, looking like he hadn't moved at all. The ceramic tea cup at his elbow was the only indication that he had done something other than sit on her couch for the past six hours.

He looked a little more composed, but when she looked closely, she could see how tightly he was wound.

She sat next to him, leaned back, and closed her eyes. Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. She needed some time to recover.

"Do you want me to get the tequila out again?" he asked, the barest hint of a smile in his voice.

She shook her head. "Nah. We probably shouldn't make a daily habit out of drinking at work." She sighed, then opened her lids once more. "I think Red John was messing with our computer system," she said. "I'm betting the prints that we matched to the one found in my room aren't your wife's at all. I think one of Red John's friends put them in the database under her name.

Very deliberately, she thought, he didn't ask how she came to that conclusion. There were some things that even Patrick Jane didn't want to know. "Can you confirm that?"

"We're working on it." She hesitated, not sure that Jane would want to hear any of this. "We took a new set of fingerprints today," she said, carefully. "We should know shortly if they match what we have on file."

He nodded, gaze distant once more. She was almost positive she didn't want to know what he was thinking.

They sat in silence until he leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right," he said briskly. "So now we have more questions."

"Like whose prints are in our system."

"Yeah, that's a big one." His lips quirked. "Another good question is why the misdirection? If Red John can change names in the fingerprint data base, why not pick someone else, someone alive?"

She tapped his arm lightly. "I'm guessing it's because it's a really good way to mess with you."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, that's certainly true."

They both laughed a little, in the way of people who are emotionally worn out and hanging to sanity by a thread. Van Pelt knocked then, her expression telling them what was on her mind before she even spoke.

"The prints we have in the data base aren't your wife's," she told Jane. Even though it meant that they had been infiltrated again, that they now had no idea who had been in Lisbon's apartment the night before, everyone relaxed a little. Subterfuge they could handle. Fingerprints from the dead were a completely different story, one that no one felt capable of dealing with.

"Back to square one, then," Jane said, crossing his legs.

Van Pelt nodded. "We can try running the print through the FBI database, but I'm assuming that Red John did the same thing to their system."

"More than likely," Lisbon said, "but do it anyway."

When the redhead left, Jane turned to look fully at her. "What now?"

Lisbon snorted. "You're the fake psychic. You tell me."

"Hm," he mused, narrowing his eyes and playing along. She was glad to see his humor, but it looked like he was ready to crack just below the surface. "I foresee that you will be going home with a handsome, brilliant man, who is going to force you to eat, and then paint your apartment. You're also going to argue with the aforementioned man about the security detail that's been assigned to your building, but he's going to tell you to deal with it."

"I have a security detail?" she asked, eyes wide. "What the hell for?"

Jane looked pained. "Really? Red John was in your apartment last night, Lisbon. He has some bizarre new game he's playing, and I have a bad feeling that you're at the center of it." The earnestness of his voice stopped whatever sarcastic remark she was planning on making. He was worried about her, that was all.

To be perfectly honest, it was a nice change. Normally she was the one worried about him. Not that she wasn't now – in fact, she was terrified for his well-being after today. She was afraid that he would go back to Malibu, go sit in his silent house and think about everything he'd lost.

"Alright," she finally said. "No complaining. But I would like it to be noted that the fake psychic is wrong."

"Oh, really?" he said, eyebrows raised. "I don't think he is."

"Afraid so," she smiled. "I don't have paint at my place. Ergo, no painting."

His answering smirk made her nervous. "You'd be surprised what you can have delivered these days."

She didn't argue with him when he announced he was following her home. It would be pointless, anyway. And having him around was nice. She figured they could both use someone to make them feel a little less alone today.

And, she remembered, she was still in Red John's sights, for whatever reason. Even if Jane would be totally useless in the event of someone actually breaking in, mentally, it would make her rest easier to have someone else there.

Like Jane had hinted at, there was paint waiting for her. Chocolate brown, of course. Because he was never wrong, naturally.

He helped her paint, the muscles in his jaw tensed as he covered the smiling face. More than anything, she wished he would do the same thing at his house.

"Better," he said, once Red John's hallmark was completely hidden. "Only one of us needs to come home to something that gruesome, and I'm afraid I've already filled that position."

She was a little shocked that he made a joke about something so personal and so dark. Her startled face made him laugh.

"I know it's not normal, Lisbon. Don't worry."

"Too late for that," she muttered, dipping her roller in the paint tray again.

When they were finished with the wall, they stood back, admiring their work. She had to admit, Jane could probably add interior decorating to his considerable list of talents.

"I told you it would look good," he said, smugly crossing his arms.

"You make me want to smack you with a paint brush," she told him.

He laughed. "Go shower. I'll clean this up and order some food."

"And you called me authoritarian," she teased.

"Go," he said, eyes laughing. "Or I'll show you what authoritarian really means."

When she came out of the bathroom, Jane had already put the furniture back, careful to not push any of it flush against her newly created accent wall. She took note of his bag sitting by the front door. Every member of her team had a bag constantly packed and in their car. Due to the nature of their job, no one ever knew if they would be able to go home or if they would wind up staying at a hotel in the middle of nowhere.

The bag meant he was had no intention of leaving tonight. Underneath her cop façade, she was grateful.

The food came while he was showering, which was fortunate as it gave her something to do. Thinking about Patrick Jane_ in her shower_ had a way of distracting her utterly.

As it turned out, Patrick Jane in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt was similarly distracting and she was forced to immediately turn and rummage through the refrigerator to hide her blush. She was annoyed with herself – was she fifteen again, for God's sake?

"I hope Italian is fine," he said, digging through the styrofoam containers. "I realized I didn't actually ask what you wanted."

"Jane, I'd be shocked if you started asking me what I thought before you did things. And Italian is fine." She finally felt brave enough to close the refrigerator door.

They ate in the living room, she on the loveseat, and he on the couch. Naturally, Jane hogged the television remote.

The sense of domestic normalcy was almost unsettling.

She wasn't aware that she was dozing until she felt the light warmth of a throw blanket cover her. Deciding hauling herself to bed wasn't worth the effort, she snuggled into the cushions, pulling the soft fleece cover up to her ears.

When the television shut off, she peeked out from her cocoon. Jane was stretched out on the couch, arms wrapped around a pillow.

She smiled a little to herself. She was spending the night with him again. Although she wasn't brave enough or sure enough to crawl onto the couch with him, he was close enough to touch, if she stretched a bit.

And, all things considered, that was good enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN**: Time to address the fingerprinting from last chapter. I did some research before writing it, and yes, apparently it's possible to get prints from a body that's been dead that long. I checked and double checked, reading a lot of (very) detailed (read: gross) articles. It has to do with the embalming fluid and how much they put where, the environment, and several other factors. I'm just going to say that for my purposes, all of those boxes were checked, and we still had prints.

Even if the whole thing was so very...ick.

Thanks for everyone who's been sticking with me through this. We're about halfway done, folks. You might get a pretty quick update...I've got parent-teacher conferences tonight, which means a lot of me sitting around, waiting.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter Five**

The past thirty-six hours had forced Jane to draw several conclusions. At the moment, the most important one was that he needed to start keeping tea at Lisbon's.

Not that he could have made it at the moment, anyway. He was wrapped up in a blanket, sitting half-way up on the couch. A few feet away, Lisbon was burrowed into the loveseat, cheeks flushed. The whistling of a tea kettle would put an end to her peaceful slumber.

Someone needed to have some peace. Since it wasn't going to be him, it might as well be her.

In truth, he was surprised he had managed to sleep at all last night.

Yesterday had been the real-life equivalent of a roller coaster. Up and down and then he'd wanted to throw up.

He'd woken with Lisbon in his arms. That was an up.

His wife's fingerprints were found at the crime scene. Down.

The exhumation. Maybe that was an upside down. Or a derailment.

As much as he didn't want to think about_ that,_ he couldn't help it. He would never ask Lisbon, and he knew that she would never tell him. Still, he wondered. His vivid imagination was haunting him.

This was all getting to be too much.

He had cried in Lisbon's arms. It was the first time he had reached for someone for comfort in a decade. Well, he supposed she had reached for him first, but the outcome was the same. After years of suffering by himself, he had been able to borrow someone's strength for a while. To be able to hold onto her, to know that she would be there as long as he needed her... it was a priceless gift.

They had touched more in the past day and a half than they had probably ever done in all the years they'd know each other combined. He liked it. And he liked being in her apartment with her. It was an actual home, a place where someone got down to the business of living. He was beginning to forget what that meant.

And then this whole thing with Angela... his mind had been racing ever since the print results had come back. His first and immediate fear was that Red John had done something with her body. It was a horror he almost couldn't contemplate.

Then Lisbon had told him her theory, and it all made sense. Well, the _how_ part did, anyway._ Why_ was still very much up in the air.

There absolutely had to be another purpose for dragging his wife into the game. Yes, like Lisbon had said, it was a good way to mess with him. But Angela was dead. He knew that.

Lisbon, on the other hand, was very much alive. Targeting her was a better way of getting and holding his attention.

Frankly, he had no idea what was going on. It had occurred to him after Lisbon and Cho had returned from the cemetery that there could have been something waiting for them there. He needed to push past his worry and pain and keep his mind sharp. If something happened to Lisbon because he was too busy dwelling on the past...

She shifted in her sleep, and he had to stop himself from going over to her. He wondered if she would object if he slid beneath the blankets, no barriers between them. He clenched his fists against the impulse. The truth was, now that he had gotten a taste of what it could be like, it was impossible to pretend he didn't want more.

He wanted the sleeping weight of her in his arms again, wanted to feel her curl into his chest, hear her heart beat against his own.

For a moment, the need made him tremble. "Screw it," he said, borrowing one of Lisbon's favorite phrases. He tossed back the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the couch.

Carefully, he picked up the edge of the fleece throw that was wrapped around Lisbon. It took a little maneuvering, but he managed to squeeze himself onto the loveseat, pulling her across his body.

She murmured sleepily, rubbing her cheek against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. It took her a few minutes to realize she wasn't alone. "Jane?" she said, voice rough.

He ran a hand down her back. "Go back to sleep," he told her.

"'Kay," she agreed, arm sliding around his waist.

Indulging himself once more, he kissed the crown of her head.

All of this was a mistake, but he wasn't going to change what he was doing. In the end, he knew all he would do was bring her pain. That was all he ever brought anyone.

Lisbon would tell him he was being stupid. Angela would have yelled at him, too. It made him feel strange, knowing that the only two women he had ever been in love with would agree on this point.

He pressed his lips to her hair again.

God, this was nice, restful. Lisbon smelled like cinnamon and home.

If he had the power, he would have stopped time in that moment. Despite the hellacious circumstances surrounding them, in this room, there was peace.

He closed his eyes. But he didn't want to sleep – he wanted to remember every breath, every heartbeat. After a decade of self-imposed solitude, he wasn't taking anything for granted.

It was dawn when Lisbon woke for good, stretching in a way he found very interesting. But there were boundaries he wasn't willing to cross, not just yet.

She propped herself up with one elbow on his chest. It was a heartwarmingly intimate gesture, even more so when he realized she probably hadn't even thought about it. "What are you doing over here?" she asked, frowning slightly.

He gave her a sheepish smile. "You looked cold?" It came out as a question.

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Thank you for being so concerned about my personal comfort, Jane." She gave him a light shove. "Move. I need to get ready for work, and so do you."

His grin widened. "Aren't you just a little ray of sunshine without your coffee?" he teased, getting out of her way.

She made an obscene gesture in his general direction as she headed up the stairs, and he laughed out loud.

The team was waiting for them when they got to work. Lisbon's temperament had been slightly improved by the two cups of coffee she'd already consumed, and she was clutching a travel mug that held her third. Really, he thought, she was going to give herself an ulcer.

"What's up, guys?" Lisbon asked, leaning casually against his infrequently used desk. He took his usual spot on the couch.

"You got a message," Grace said, expression troubled.

"From who?" she asked, the tone of her voice indicating that she had seamlessly switched into full work mode.

"No return address," Cho told her. "Bike messenger brought it in about ten minutes ago." There was a pause. "Red smiley face sticker on the back of the envelope."

Lisbon reached for the paper Grace was holding out, but Jane snagged it first. He unfolded it with a sense of mounting trepidation. "So he took his wings, and fled; then the morn blushed rosy red," he recited. "I dried my tears, and armed my fears with ten thousand shields and spears."

There was a thoughtful silence.

"What the hell does that mean?" Rigsby asked.

"More William Blake poetry," Cho said.

Jane took a moment to note that the depths of Cho's literary knowledge were vast and uncharted. "It's from a poem called 'The Angel,' if I'm not mistaken," he told them.

"Great," Lisbon said. "But what's the point?"

"It sounds like a warning," Grace ventured, brows furrowed as she contemplated the verses.

"I agree," Jane said. "But I don't know what he's warning _about_. Or who he's warning."

"Lisbon, obviously," Rigsby concluded. "He's already given her a message once, and now he's doing it again."

Jane shook his head. "That whole mess in Lisbon's apartment was meant for me. Red John wanted me to know that he's found a new game to play, and Lisbon is going to be his featured star."

The team was silent as they mulled over the new information, everyone wearing almost identical expressions of horror. Cho was the first to speak.

"So do we assume that the poem was meant for you, too?" he wanted to know. "And that Red John sent it to Lisbon to remind you of what he's doing?"

Jane shrugged. "That would be my guess, but I honestly don't know."

"Okay," Lisbon said again, "but why that particular poem? He could have just sent a kidney or something. That would've gotten his point across just as well, and with much less ambiguity."

He ignored her sarcasm, repeating the lines of the poem in his head. "I think," he finally said, slowly, "that he's telling us to prepare for war."

An uneasy silence descended upon the office that morning. Lisbon all but barricaded herself in her office, dilligently filling out forms and signing reports. The team caught up on backlogged expense reports and cleared old files of their desks.

He sat on the couch in the bullpen, sipping tea and thinking. Every so often, his eyes drifted towards Lisbon's office. Although his first inclination was to sit near her, he was worried that he would be distracted by thoughts of their burgeoning relationship.

And, as much as he really did need to think about that, it was distracting. Keeping her alive and out of the clutches of a serial killer was priority number one. After that, he would worry about where they were going.

Still, he couldn't help but remember what it was like to hold her against him, to feel her breath drift over his chest. There was no greater intimacy than watching over someone as they slept, to know that, for those moments, they had trusted you to protect them at their most vulnerable.

It was something he intended to repeat, many times.

In the afternoon, the phone rang. Though psychics weren't real, he knew with absolute certainty the case they were about to get.

"Looks like Red John," Cho said, reaching for his jacket.

The mood was grim as they loaded up. Red John cases made everyone a little edgier, but given the circumstances, the tension was an almost tangible thing.

For the first time, there was a message with the body besides a smiling face. Pinned to the victim's chest, there was a note, written in blood.

"I was armed; he came in vain," Lisbon read.

"More William Blake," Jane noted.

"Okay," Risby said, "that is getting seriously annoying."

"Only because the last thing you read was a cereal box," Cho told him.

Lisbon ignored their bickering. "Have forensics run the note. I almost hope we don't find anything there, though. I've had enough games to last a while."

"You aren't kidding," Jane muttered to himself. He fervently hoped that the note was the only abnormality with this case. His brain was already severely overworked. Not to mention his nerves.

They finished with the crime scene and went to canvas the neighbors, Jane doing his customary wandering around the house.

But there was nothing. No clues, no witnesses.

Grace was waiting impatiently when they returned to headquarters. "DNA results are back for the blood on your wall, boss."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her straighten her shoulders, readying herself for whatever new twist was coming their way.

"And?"

Grace shrugged. "It's Jane's."

He blinked. "Well, that was unexpected."

Lisbon turned to him. "Did the same thing happen? Someone put your name on someone else's DNA?"

He frowned, thinking. Then, "Nope. I'm betting that's mine." He caught Lisbon's confused gaze. "And that's why you'll never be able to talk me into donating blood again."

Lisbon's expression cleared for a second. "That has to be it. And if we're smart about it, we'll find another link to Red John."

He vividly remembered her trying to talk him into donating blood. Harrassing, actually, was a better word for what had happened.

_"Stop being a baby, Jane. Think of it as your good deed for the day."_

_"Ah, no," he'd told her. "My good deed every day is helping you catch killers."_

_"Come on," she'd wheedled. "Bertram said he'd get lunch catered for the unit who donates the most. Imagine how ticked he'll be if it's us."_

_He had thought about that for a moment or two. "Utterly furious, I'd imagine. Alright then, you've talked me into it. Lead the way."_

When he came out of his reminiscence, Lisbon was already leaning over Grace's shoulder, staring at the list of blood bank employees.

"Check everyone's records, then start lining up interviews," she said.

"In case you're wondering, Lisbon," he said, smirking in an entirely unfunny manner, "this was a message meant for me, too."

"Huh," she said flatly. "No shit?"

"No shit," he affirmed.

"Well, thanks for the insight. Let me know if you ever come up with anything helpful, like what it means." She was hiding her worry, he knew, and it was making her sarcasm sharper.

On his way out of the room, he touched her shoulder lightly. Even through the blazer she wore, he could feel her tension.

He carried a fresh cup of tea up to the attic. The quiet of the room, normally soothing, seemed oppressive.

Individually, the clues from Red John didn't make a lot of sense. Mostly, they were emotional punches. His blood, Angela's fingerprints. But taken as a whole, he thought he was starting to come to a conclusion.

The game was about to come to a climax, he figured. Red John had drawn out his game long enough now, like a cat playing with its food. The shocks would start to become normal, and he would lose the element of fear.

Red John was warning him that he was running out of time. But how much was left? And what would happen when it ran out?


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Buckle up, ladies and gentlemen. We're off to the races.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank each of you who've left me a review. They seriously make my day, make me smile, and inspire me to write faster. Love you guys!

Happy Halloween!

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter Six**

Lisbon passed out on the couch in her office around midnight. The last she had seen of Jane, he was stretched out in the bullpen, the ever present cup of tea sitting on his desk. What she really wanted, if she was being honest with herself, was for him to curl up against her again.

She had spent two nights in a row next to him. Practically speaking, it wasn't a vast amount of time. Even so, she was worried it would become an addiction. It might already be one.

She wrapped her arms around herself, but it was a poor substitute.

There was some comfort in knowing that he was only there because she was.

They were getting closer to something, moving in the same direction. It seemed like it had all happened so fast. She and Jane had been dancing around whatever was between them, both unwilling to rock the boat, so to speak.

But two nights ago he had been forced to face his fear of losing her. She wondered if that had been some sort of catalyst for him, something that would propel him out of the safe, guarded framework he had been existing in.

Despite what had led to that point, she hoped so. A decade was a long time to be in love with someone.

The morning came too soon for her liking, and she wandered groggily into the kitchenette, intent on making coffee. Jane was already there, systematically brewing his tea.

"Morning," he said quietly, rumpled from his time on the couch.

Officially, seeing Jane first thing in the morning was becoming one of her favorite things. Not quite as good as waking up with his heart beating in her ears, but still not bad.

"Good morning," she said, fishing out the paper filters. "Sleep well?"

He smiled. "Not as well as I slept the two nights before," he replied, and she had to work to hide her blush.

Jane had no idea what a dangerous game he was playing. One more comment like that and he was going to find himself shoved up against the wall, her hands gripping his jacket lapels, desperately eager to know what he tasted like.

She had restraint, and _damn,_ she had exercised it in the past years, but she had never imagined what it would do to her self control when Jane started making comments like _that_.

It didn't help that her brain suddenly decided to jump back to the image of him in a t-shirt and pajama pants, hair wet from the shower.

With fumbling fingers, she reached for her coffee cup, praying that her favorite beverage would be ready soon. Clearly, she was in desperate need of caffeine.

"Everything alright?" Jane asked, standing entirely too close for her peace of mind in the current circumstances. "You look a little...flushed." The lilt of his voice told her that he was very deliberately flirting.

At her age, she should be able to flirt back, and she had, many times. All she could do at the moment, however, was shake her head and grab the coffee pot. She avoided his eyes the entire time.

The first sip of the bitter black beverage made her feel like maybe the world was capable of righting itself. By the time she finished her first cup, she felt much more like herself, much more ready to deal with whatever Jane was going to throw at her.

When the rest of the team arrived, she had already spread the research on the blood bank team out on the table in the bullpen.

Jane's blood on her wall was the latest bizarre twist in a series of unexpected turns. Unlike the fingerprint and the poem, she couldn't even begin to guess at the meaning. Was Red John signaling Jane's death? That could be the case. But then, why keep sending things to her?

It made absolutely no sense. Of course, nothing that had happened recently was particularly logical.

Red John was playing a new game, one he had hadn't tried before. And she was going to catch him.

With renewed determination, she dove into the stacks of files piled around her. Somewhere in those folders was a link to Red John.

Jane was doing the same, studying each employee with his penetrating gaze. There wasn't a criminal in the world that could hide from Patrick Jane once he'd turned his eyes on them.

Rigsby and Cho were doing their best to create timelines for every person, helped by Grace. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, Lisbon thought. They had to fill in the gaps for twenty people for the past eleven days.

When the first employees started showing up at the office, Jane had insisted on sitting in Lisbon's office, his hips resting against the conference table, peering intently out of the blinds. He wanted the opportunity to study the reactions of each person without being seen himself.

She had left him to it, methodically focused on the investigation. It was easy to do her job today; she could sense that something bad was poised to happen, and it made her utterly driven.

They interviewed five people before lunch. Each time, Jane had opened the blinds enough to shake his head at them.

By noon, she had a horrific headache.

Retreating to her office, she rummaged around in her desk until she found the small bottle of pills she kept there. She shook three into her hand, tilted her head back, and swallowed them.

From her couch, Jane wrinkled his nose. "How do you do that without water?"

She shrugged. "Practice." Sighing, she ran her hands over her face. "What are you even looking for?"

He shook his head. "It's hard to say, really. Just _something_. Lorelei had it. It's how I knew who she was right away."

The mentioned of Lorelei Martins had the same effect on her it ever had: the clenched fist over her heart, the immediate raising of her guard.

Lisbon would have disliked her under normal conditions. She was the accomplice of a sadistic serial killer, after all. But the level of personal hatred she felt stemmed directly from Jane's involvement with the woman.

He had gone nine years, and then he had ruined himself, as though it didn't matter at all.

It still was hard to take. And it still felt like a betrayal.

However, quietly seething now would do them no good. "We have five more employees lined up, starting at one," she told him. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

He smiled wryly. "Maybe."

Lunch was a hurried affair, burgers and fries scattered across unread files, ketchup staining papers a dull shade of crimson. No one talked much, just read the same lines over and over, hoping that something would pop, something would give them a ray of hope.

Suddenly, Jane tapped a folder, setting down his half-eaten sandwich. "This one...is she coming in this afternoon?"

Lisbon peered over his shoulder. "Sarah Davis," she read. "California native, worked at the blood bank for three years." Rapidly she scanned the rest of the file, but she failed to see what had piqued Jane's interest. "What's special about her?"

Jane frowned. "There's something that's bothering me." He turned to meet her eyes. "I don't know _what_, exactly, but it's making me twitchy."

She raised an eyebrow. "Twitchy?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Edgy, uneasy, apprehensive, restive. Just trying to broaden our vocabulary, Lisbon."

Cho checked his list of names. "Yeah, she'll be here later today."

At that moment, Jane's phone rang. "I think I might talk to her myself, if that's okay with you," he told Cho, pulling the device out of his pocket. He frowned at the number, pushing back from the table and standing up. "Hello?"

No one bothered to pretend they were doing anything other than listening to Jane's conversation.

"Yes," he said, in response to some question.

There was a pause, and then his face adopted an expression of shock. "What?"

A tendril of fear wrapped around Lisbon. She held on to the fact that the entire team was right in front of her. At least they were safe.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Jane said, flipping his phone shut. He turned to face them, clearly bewildered. "My house is on fire," he said.

She stared. "What?"

"In Malibu," he clarified. "That was the fire department." His eyes were already down the coast.

Although she absolutely hated when he was there, she understood that it was the place he had built his life with his wife and daughter. The last place where he had been truly content and happy. He had loved deeply within those four walls, and he had grieved there just as deeply. He was still grieving. And he would feel the loss of his last home intensely.

"Go," she told him, but gently. "We'll handle the investigation here."

He looked at her sharply. "Do you really think that my house burning down isn't related to what's happening?"

"Not a bit," she said, voice still soft. "But you still need to go there."

There was still uncertainty on his face, and she realized that it stemmed from his worry for her safety. He didn't want to leave her alone. Similarly, she wasn't sending him six hours away by himself.

"Rigsby, humor me and go with Jane. All things considered, we should probably stick to the whole safety in numbers thing." Jane didn't argue, which was surprising. Maybe the wisdom in her words was obvious. Or maybe he was just in shock.

"You got it, boss," Rigsby said immediately, his expression worried.

She felt a rush of warmth for the other man. Seeing how the rest of the team rallied around Jane in times of trouble, no matter what he had done, always touched her. They really were family, and when it came down to it, you did anything for your family.

There was a flurry of activity as the two men got ready to leave. Before joining Rigsby in the hallway, Jane took a moment to have a low, serious word with her.

"Promise me you'll be careful," he said, eyes solemn.

"I'll be careful," she assured him.

"I mean it, Lisbon. Something bad is going to happen, I can feel it." His tone was almost wild.

"I know," she whispered. "I can, too."

He hugged her then, in the middle of the room, tightly, but briefly. For an instant, she swore she felt his lips on her hair, but then he was gone.

"Keep in touch," he said.

She nodded. "The same goes for you."

After they had left, the mood in the office was strained.

"Let's keep pushing forward," she told the remainder of her team. "We have people to interview, dots to connect. I know there's a lot going on right now, but let's just do our jobs."

Their first two suspects were clearly confused as to why they were there, and then genuinely horrified when they realized that someone had stolen blood from them. One even mentioned vampires.

"It's that damn Twilight," Grace muttered as Cho escorted the woman out.

Lisbon hastily turned a snort into a cough.

The third suspect was Sarah Davis, the file Jane had pointed out. In a moment of clarity, she realized that it was not a coincidence that Jane wasn't there to interview the woman.

Perhaps it was because Jane had already brought it up, but Lisbon sensed that there was something off. Outwardly, Sarah Davis seemed serene, peaceful. But there was _something_, just like Jane had said, clinging to her like some sort of malignant halo. It was almost visible, and she understood how Jane had made this woman just from a photograph.

"Hi, Miss Davis," she said, pulling her professionalism around her like a cloak. "We just need to ask you a few questions about the past week and a half."

Sarah Davis smiled brightly. "Sure. I heard someone stole some blood from us," she said. "How creepy is that?"

Lisbon felt her lips purse. "Very creepy."

The information Sarah gave them was detailed, easily verifiable. Then again, she expected nothing less.

Sarah Davis, or whatever he real name might be, was an actress. Over the years, Lisbon had learned the signs, mainly from Jane, and the longer the interview went, the more of her mental checklist was completed.

However, she had a feeling the other woman was enjoying her latest role of innocent witness a touch too much. It was a mistake, and Lisbon meant to take advantage of it.

"So do you have any idea why someone would want that blood?" she asked, hoping her face didn't give her away.

"No," Sarah said, eyes wide. "But it's not the first time people have robbed us. You get a lot of strange people hanging around sometimes."

"It could be that someone is selling it on the black market. A lot of mob doctors need to turn to not so reputable sources to keep their supply up. A blood bank is like the holy grail for someone who needs a lot of blood in a hurry."_ Please take the bait_, she prayed.

"A lot?" Sarah asked. "You guys think one unit is a lot?"

_Thank you, God._

On her right, Cho picked up on the slip. "We never said it was one unit. We never specified the amount that was taken." He sat up a little straighter, moved his chair a little closer.

Across the table, Sarah's face slipped, just a touch. "One of the other girls told me," she said, waving her hand.

"That's funny," Lisbon said. "We made a point of not mentioning how much was stolen. Do you mind telling me how you came by such a detail?"

Suddenly, the mask was gone, and a vindictive, triumphant Red John disciple sat across from them. Lisbon felt her skin crawl.

Unexpectedly, Grace leaned in. "I'd start talking if I were you. Once we capture Red John accomplices, they tend to die rather quickly. Hope you didn't buy any green bananas."

Sarah Davis smiled. "He told me you'd say that."

And she refused to say another word.

Two hours later, Lisbon, back in her office, called Jane.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey, yourself," she replied. "You were right about Sarah Davis."

She heard a touch of amusement in his voice. "Of course I was. Did she give you anything useful?"

"Not yet," she told him. "But it's hopefully just a matter of time." She paused. "Where are you?"

"Almost there," he said. "In fact, I think I can see the smoke." His voice was perfectly unemotional. She wanted to hug him.

"I'll let you go, then," she said, keeping her voice as even as his. "Be safe."

"You, too," he said, and there was definitely an undercurrent of _something_ in his voice. "I'll call you soon."

She hung up, and missed the connection immediately.

However, there was a bright spot - since Jane wasn't there to harass her about her caffeine consumption, she could indulge in something decadent from the coffee cart without fielding his disapproving remarks.

She checked her purse. Naturally, she didn't have enough cash. Her last twenty had gone to a working girl who had needed a little persuasion to give a description of a suspect the week before.

So she headed for her car in the underground garage, wondering if she could find enough change in the console to buy what she was after.

Her phone buzzed. It was Rigsby. _The house might not be a total loss. Still pretty bad. Keeping a close eye on him._

She was immensely grateful for that. _Thank you_, she keyed back.

She was too engrossed in her phone to hear the footsteps until it was far too late. She never felt the blow to the back of her head, never felt the cold of the concrete under her cheek. And she certainly never saw the blackness of the trunk as it swallowed her.

xXxXxXx

Six hours away, Patrick Jane was holding down "1" on his speed dial. The call rang through, and he waited for Lisbon to pick up.

He would be waiting a long time.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN**: Whew. And the ride continues. Hang in there - next chapter is the big 'un.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. If you sue me, all I have is Mountain Dew cans and a flash drive.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter 7**

On a good day, he could make it from Malibu to Sacramento in six hours and forty five minutes. Sometimes, when he didn't plan properly, it could take more like seven and a half.

This drive took him five hours and fifty eight minutes.

There were a few times when he was worried that the Citroen wasn't going to make it, but he kept his foot down. In the passenger seat, Rigsby said nothing, but held on.

Jane felt sick, like at any moment he was going to need to pull over and heave. Lisbon was missing, had been missing since shortly after he had talked to her last. She had gone for coffee and never returned.

Guilt was a horrid thing, like a cancer. It was his fault, all over again.

He had known, known for days, that her life was in danger. And then he had left.

His house in Malibu burning down was about the only impetus that could have compelled him to walk out the office door without her. Red John had played one of his trump cards, and Jane had walked right into the trap.

Lisbon had been left unprotected, and the plan had gone into action. When he thought about what a fool he had been, he was forced to bite down on his back teeth to keep from yelling.

His knuckles had turned white from the pressure he was exerting on the steering wheel.

In the back of his mind, his very vivid imagination was playing out every possible scenario that could be happening to Lisbon. God, if she died, if she was tortured…

The parking ramp of the CBI was draped in crime scene tape. Plastic tags told him where they had found Lisbon's cell phone and keys. Another told him showed him the small spot of blood that was staining the concrete.

His heart was lodged somewhere in his throat.

In Lisbon's absence, Cho had taken over Serious Crimes, and Jane was grateful for his no-nonsense efficiency. It helped him hold on to a little bit of rationality.

"Security footage?" Cho asked Grace.

She shook her head. "All static, of course. And we haven't been able to find any witnesses in the parking ramp itself. Several people did see Lisbon in the hallways right before she left, but that's not much help."

"What about the girl from the blood bank?" Jane asked. "Is she talking yet?"

"Not a word," Grace told him.

"Can I see her?"

The team looked warily at him. "What? Like I've never questioned Red John's accomplices before?"

It was Cho that spoke up. "Well, you were sleeping with the last disciple we had. Besides, this situation is different."

"Yes, it is," he said, tone suddenly much sharper. "Lisbon's life is on the line. And if you think I'm not going to do everything I can to get her back, you're very much mistaken."

"It's not that," Grace said instantly, placating. "It's just..." She trailed off, uncertain.

"You're just worried I might freak out on her?" Despite the gravity of the situation, he almost smiled.

Cho made a decision. "Fine. She's in interrogation room two."

Ten minutes later, he pushed the door the room open, making sure his jacket was buttoned properly. The idea was to look perfectly calm, perfectly collected.

He smiled at Sarah Davis, keeping his breathing very even. Sliding the chair back, he sat, crossing his legs. "Hi," he said, "I'm sure you know who I am already."

She returned his smile, putting a twist on it. There was a clear touch of psychopathy in her nondescript eyes, but arrogance as well. She wouldn't be able to help giving herself away, this one.

"I'm Patrick," he went on. "You stole my blood and gave it to someone. I'd very much like to know who that was."

"It's very nice to meet you, Patrick," she said, body language and tone indicating that she thought herself above the situation, thought that he didn't have a chance of getting her to talk.

He laced his fingers together, preparing to settle in for what was tantamount to a siege. He just had to wait it out.

He hoped he could afford the time it was going to take.

XxXxXxXxXxX

The darkness was the first thing she noticed. Or maybe it was the cold. Either way, a sense of wrongness assailed her even before she opened her eyes.

It took a few moments to adjust to the lack of lighting, but eventually she could see the shadowy outline of her surroundings. Boxes, old crates, exposed pipes. A warehouse, then. But it was impossible to tell where she was located on the map.

The second thing she realized was that she was handcuffed, the chain looped around a pipe.

Her head was pounding. She tried to touch it, but the cuffs wouldn't allow her to reach the back of her skull.

A few quick tugs told her that there was no way out of her restraints. She took a second to wish violently for Jane's lock-picking skills. Then she wasted another moment just wishing for Jane, period.

He'd make some smart-ass comment that would make her feel better, would allow to her think, to get past the fear that was almost blinding her.

For she was utterly terrified.

People that Red John took didn't make it back alive. Kristina Frye had, she supposed, but it didn't count, not really. The woman thought she was dead, hiding behind her ruined mind.

She took a deep, steadying breath, but it had no effect.

"Keep it together," she whispered.

She made a resolution then. She was going to die within the next several hours, she assumed. But she wouldn't go down without fighting. Above all else, she wasn't going to break down and cower. She would die with her chin up. It might not matter to Red John, but it mattered to her.

And it might matter to Jane, too.

But she _would not_ think about that, about leaving him. It was too painful.

In the distance, she heard approaching footsteps. She said a prayer for strength. She was doing that a lot lately, but she had never needed that particular virtue more.

The footfalls came closer, and she swallowed the rising panic that was threatening to bubble up in her throat.

"Are you awake, Agent Lisbon?" asked a high, cold voice. A dark figure came into view, stopped a few feet in front of her.

She didn't respond, didn't look up, fought through the fear.

"Nothing to say?" he asked. "I hope that changes. You and I are going to be spending some time together and it's going to be very boring if we can't have a simple conversation."

There was flurry of movement, and he crouched in front of her. A gloved hand took her chin, forced her to look up.

Before she could stop herself, she let out a quick, sharp breath.

He was masked, the rubber distorting his features until they were unrecognizable. In the back of her mind, she noted the disguise. Why did it matter if she saw his face now?

"Calm down, Teresa. I'm not going to kill you."

"Well, that's reassuring," she said without thinking, natural sarcasm rising to the surface. It only lasted a moment, just until she remembered what happened to people who taunted Red John.

But he laughed, the sound muffled. "And there's that wit I knew you had." He released her from his grip, but she could still feel the phantom imprint of his fingers.

"You really are quite something," he went on. "I can understand Patrick's fascination with you. You're like a bundle of contradictions. Tough, but beautiful. Stubborn, but sweet. Almost bulletproof, but still very feminine." He ran the tip of one finger across her collar bone.

She couldn't repress the shudder that slid down her spine.

"And, I suppose," he went on, "I can understand your fascination with him, as well. Handsome, flawed, intelligent. All he needs is a little love and he'll be fixed, hm?"

Her heart was pounding loudly in her ears. She had never imagined a scenario where she would be having this sort of conversation with such a monster.

"It's too bad, really," he said. "You could be settled down by now, children running through your yard, clinging to your legs, the matron of a happy home. Instead you're here, suffering because you were silly enough to fall in love with a man who is frankly damaged."

She blinked. "Are you giving me dating advice?" And there it was again, her inability to keep her mouth shut.

He laughed again, evil and dark. "Why, yes, I suppose I am."

There was a quick, unexpected movement, and she felt a brief, stinging pain in her neck. Red John dangled her cross pendant from his gloved hand. "Something for darling Patrick, I think. I am assuming he thinks I'm serious already, but this should really cement things."

"Did you set his house on fire?" she asked, wondering what the hell was wrong with her. _Stop. Talking._

"Not personally," he said. "But I needed him to be out of the way for a little while, and it was a good way to ensure he would go. It also adds to the fear, you see. Once he realized you were gone, he still had to travel seven hours to _begin_ looking for you."

"And his blood on my wall?"

"Now, Teresa, I wouldn't want to give away all of my motives so soon, would I? Trust me, we'll have plenty of time to talk." He stood then, and she silently exhaled.

"Sit tight," he told her. "I'll be back soon."

It wasn't until his footsteps had faded into silence that her muscles started to relax. Dimly, she realized she was trembling, but that wasn't so surprising.

She curled into a ball as best she could, preserving her body heat. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, but she set her jaw stubbornly. Regardless of what Red John told her, these still might be the last hours of her life, and she was damned if she would spend them sobbing.

Instead, she closed her eyes and prayed.

XxXxXxXxXxX

The bike messenger delivered the cross that afternoon. Jane slit the top of the envelope, frowning, but said nothing as the gold chain spilled out onto his palm.

"Shit," Rigsby spat, instantly recognizing the item.

Apparently, that summed up the rest of the team's feelings as well.

"Track down how the order was placed," Cho told Grace. "Regardless, though, someone had to have physically dropped the envelope off for delivery."

"On it," she said, picking up her phone.

"Rigsby, let's go start tracking down Sarah Davis' movements for the past week and a half. Van Pelt already pulled all of her credit card receipts and bank statements, so we have a paper trail to follow." Cho grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. "I'll call you if something turns up," he said to Jane.

He nodded silently, still staring at the necklace in his hand. He hadn't prepared himself for taunting, and the idea that Red John had been close enough to Lisbon to pull this from her body was almost painful.

Whenever he pictured Lisbon, her cross was always a part of the image, resting just beneath her collarbone. He could use it to gauge how fast she was breathing, how hard her heart was pounding, just by watching it move.

Slowly, almost reverently, he tucked the necklace into his vest pocket. It would stay there, he decided, until he had the opportunity to return it to its rightful place.

His hands were shaking.

"Hey, Jane," Grace called, tapping keys rapidly on her computer. "Delivery service says that the envelope was dropped off this morning. They have security cameras. Cho and Rigsby are already on their way."

He nodded again, unable to formulate a response. He almost didn't notice Grace coming to stand directly in front of him. Unexpectedly, she put her hands on either side of his face.

"Look at me," she said.

He did. He didn't have any other choice.

"She needs you to be firing on all cylinders right now. Red John is playing a game with you. You can either play along, or you can fight to get her back. If you want to live the rest of your life without her, then go check out some place else." It was the emotion in her voice that brought him back, made him pay attention.

"Thank you," he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her chastely on the cheek. Then he walked out of the bullpen, striding purposefully towards the elevator. He was done waiting.

Sarah Davis was still sitting serenely, seemingly untroubled by her surroundings.

He sat. "I think we've reached the climax of Red John's game," he said bluntly. "Since you're still sitting here, since he allowed us to find you, I'm inclined to think that you're not particularly high up in the pecking order."

Sarah said nothing. "That's really unfortunate, because the peons tend to die first," Jane continued. "It's never pleasant. Poison, assassinations. Hell, someone was even lit on fire in the very cell you're in right now."

Her eyes flickered just once, but he noticed.

"Yeah," he said. "True story. I was the one who found the man. He was lit up like a torch. We managed to put the fire out, get him to a hospital. It was too bad, really. Instead of dying here, he had to endure the agony of all of his organ systems shutting down over at St. Sophia's Hospital. We just drew his pain out."

The pulse in the base of her throat had started to beat faster. "You know what went first?" he asked, "after the fire was set, I mean?" He paused a beat for emphasis. "His hair. It didn't last five seconds."

Impulsively, Sarah touched her long blonde locks. "Stop," she whispered, eyes now wide and fearful.

"I can protect you," he said, learning earnestly forward. "If you tell me what I need to know, I can protect you. In fact, if your information is good enough, Sarah, there won't be anything you need to be protected _from_."

He could see her wavering, and had to clench his fists to stop himself from physically shaking her.

"Let me help you," he entreated.

She swallowed. "You have no idea what you're saying," she said. "And you of all people aren't going to be protecting me. In fact, if anyone is going to kill me, it'll be you."

He was nonplussed. "Why do you say that?"

The psychopathy was back in her eyes, and he could have wept. "You'll find out."

XxXxXxXxX

Red John had come to see her again twice. Each time she was certain she was going to die.

"Why am I here?" she dared to ask once.

To her surprise, he had answered. "Because I'm tired of playing this cat and mouse game with Patrick. There are more and better things I can be accomplishing." He had paused, thoughtfully. "But for my plans to succeed, I need an accomplice, an assistant."

"He'll die before he joins you," she hissed, expression dark and wild.

"Perhaps," he said, "but that's really not the point at all."

She froze as he tugged on a lock of her hair. "The whole idea is that he won't let you die, not if he can prevent it. He's going to learn that though I take away, I can give as well. He can have what he wants - you, alive. All he has to do is give me what I want."

The weight of his words fell on her. "Oh, God," she whispered.

He would have a choice. She could live, but it would be at a cost.

A thought occurred to her. "What makes you think he won't just say he'll join you?"

Red John laughed. "Oh, like in Las Vegas? Teresa, I leaned a lot from that little fiasco, the first being that there are no lengths to which he won't go to save your life. I've known for years that he'd kill for you. All I have to do is just put the two together."

"You're insane," she said. "He won't do it."

"You think not?" he asked. "I think he loves you enough. And if you're wondering what's going to keep him from killing me...you are."

She stared.

"Do you really think that I would just let you go, Teresa? No, you'll be watched. If I die, you do, too. Patrick couldn't live with that on his conscience."

"And what if I killed myself?" she asked, brazenly.

He snorted. "You would do that to poor Patrick? After he sacrificed everything for you? Imagine how broken he would be."

In her mind's eye, she could see his face. Could see his shattered expression. Almost certainly, she would have his death on her hands, too.

But she wouldn't be able to live the way Red John was suggesting, either.

The whole idea seemed outrageous, but yet... would Jane really do it? She hoped not. She prayed not. Her life wasn't worth that.

A small voice in the back of her head spoke up. She was the only thing Jane had left. And he would fight to keep her. He had proven time and again that he didn't care about consequences.

"I think," Red John said, "that he'll be persuaded rather easily. He's already been reminded of how it feels to lose the woman he loves."

She swore. Angela's prints were just a way of getting Jane to remember.

"And I believe you asked me about the blood on the wall earlier? Pure symbolism, Teresa. My symbol, drawn with his blood. He becomes me. Maybe not yet, but soon."

Her throat felt tight. "The poems?" she asked.

The tone of his voice told her he was smiling. "'The Angel' is a poem about giving up the naiveté of childhood, of putting innocence behind us. Patrick needs to give up on this ridiculous idea of revenge, and start to see what is truly in front of him."

"You're insane," she said again.

"Enough talking for now," he told her. "I have to go ensure that Patrick is informed about his upcoming decision."

When his footsteps receded again, she slumped over. She had to stop this. She just wasn't sure how.

Frantically, she cast her mind around. She was just the bait, the carrot, if she wanted to use that metaphor.

Her solution came to her suddenly, leaving her feeling hollow. It was time to take the bait away. She scanned the area she was being held in. She needed something sharp, something deadly. When it sank in that she was trying to find an object she could end her own life with, it stole her breath.

But she would do it.

It would save Jane's life, and the lives of so many others.

She saw Jane's face again, crumpled and broken, and she fought a sob. But she had been strong so far, and she would continue to be so.

There weren't any other options.

XxXxXxXxXxX

AN: Would Jane do it? Do you think? Think about the person you love most in the world. Would you do it for them? Yes, RJ is evil, but would you let the other person die? When you have the opportunity to save them?

And would Lisbon really do it? Go back to that person you love. Would you do _that_ for them, too? So that they weren't forced into such a decision? It's an interesting thought.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: **I've found all of your answers to the questions I posed at the end of last chapter very interesting. I was asked to give my own response, so here we go: Yes, I would, and yes, I would.

Do I think Jane and Lisbon would give the same answers? Some said yes to Jane and no to Lisbon, while others said the opposite. Personally, I think they both would do whatever it took to save the other's life, and that's what I ran with here. But the teacher in me sees all of these varied responses and justifications, and it makes me happy. Gold stars all around.

This is the big chapter. Here we go. Put on your crash helmets!

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter Eight**

Forty-eight hours was a magic, sacred number in the universe of police work. It was the holy threshold, after which the odds of finding a missing person or a kidnap victim dropped drastically.

Lisbon had been gone forty hours, and Jane was starting the feel the strain.

He hadn't slept in almost three days. For the first time in years, he was drinking coffee. Tea was relaxing, but that wasn't something he could afford right now. He needed focus, he needed energy.

Sarah Davis was on the edge of breaking. Close enough that he was forced to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from yelling. It would do him no good, he knew, but it would probably make him feel a hell of a lot better if he could have a physical outlet for his frustration.

Rigsby was basically living in the CBI Suburban, tirelessly hunting down every lead they could find. Cho was unshaven. Grace's hair was tied back into a messy knot, eyes bloodshot from the hours spent staring at her computer screen.

It was late in the afternoon, and an ache had taken up residence between his shoulder blades. He needed to get back in the interrogation room, to press on. Running his hands over his face once, he stood, pushing up from his couch.

Sarah was waiting for him; he could tell by her expression.

"I was wondering when you'd be back in, Mr. Jane," she said sweetly. His heart sank; she was wearing the mask of Red John's accomplice, and wearing it fully.

"And why is that?" he asked, taking his customary chair across from her.

Her smile became wider. "I have a message for you."

He swallowed, almost imperceptibly. "Where did this message come from?"

"That's not important, Mr. Jane." She shifted, leaning forward. "What's important right now is that you have a choice to make."

He waited.

"Red John wants you to know that what happens next is up to you. Teresa Lisbon lives or dies based on your decision."

Despite the fear and trepidation, he felt a wave of crashing relief. She was still alive. "Are you going to tell me what my choices are, or are you just going to be vague and dramatic?"

Sarah Davis smiled brightly again, then began to lay out the terms of Red John's bargain. With mounting horror, he listened, wondering why he hadn't seen this coming. It would have been far too easy to kill Lisbon outright. Now she was leverage, and very good leverage at that.

"That's one hell of a decision," he said when Sarah had stopped. His voice sounded like it was coming from a long way off, and his words came out without thought.

"Not really," she told him. "How much do you love her?" She paused. "You have six hours," she added. "No sense in dragging this out."

He stood then, nearly knocking over his chair. As soon as it was closed behind him, his leaned his shoulders against the door, fighting to steady his breathing.

Join Red John, or Lisbon dies.

It was almost brilliant in its simplicity. And the choice was an impossible one. Ally himself with the monster that had killed his family? Absurd.

But stand by while Lisbon was murdered? While it was in his power to stop it? Similarly insane.

He ran one hand through his hair, not something he normally did. _Think_, he urged himself. _Think._ There had to be a way out of this, a clue he had missed, some link that would lead him to Lisbon.

His mind was already making a decision for him, but he fought it off. He had six hours to find her, to put an end to this madness.

Her green eyes were burned into his brain. _Pick me_, she implored. He shook his head. Lisbon would never beg for her life, especially when the cost was so high. She would walk willingly into the arms of her executioner if it meant saving him from this choice.

But could he live with her death on his hands? Could he really? The woman had quite literally been his salvation. She had become the focal point of his universe, his own personal sun. If she was gone, there would be nothing left, save endless cold and night.

The question was: how much was he willing to sacrifice to save her life? If it was a trade, his life for hers, then there would be no hesitation from him But, as he had learned, there were things much worse than death.

He _had_ to find her before his time limit was up.

The team was huddled around the conference table when he stalked back into the bullpen. Their body language told him they had caught a break.

"What?" he asked without preamble.

"The guy on the delivery service's security tape? The one who dropped off the boss's necklace?" Cho said. "We pulled the tape from every outdoor security camera within six blocks of the building. We caught him getting into a car going west. IT enhanced the footage, and we got a license plate."

There was more, so he waited.

"Sac PD just ticketed the car for illegal parking outside of a warehouse close to the docks."

His immediate reaction was to rush out the door, unarmed, and without waiting for anyone else. Fortunately, rationality took over. "When do we go?"

"We're working with Sac PD SWAT," Rigsby chimed in, already loosening his tie. "They're setting up as we speak. One of their guys is an expert with thermal imaging cameras, so they're going to tell us if there's anyone in the building. The second we know, we're out of here."

Jane let out a tense breath. "How long is that going to take?"

The other man shrugged. "Just depends, man. Within the hour, I would say."

He nodded once to show his understanding, then turned to Grace. "You should come up with a list of the people that have been to see Sarah Davis since the last time I was with her."

"Okay," she said, slowly. "Mind telling me why?"

His smile was grim. "One of them gave her a message from Red John to pass on to me."

The team stared at him. "What was it?" Cho wanted to know.

Jane considered his words very carefully. "He said that whether Lisbon lives or dies is based entirely on my decisions." There. That was truthful enough, but still being vague, unspecific. There was no point in sharing the horrific options he'd been given with the others.

Grace put a hand on his arm. "He's just messing with your head, Jane," she said softly. "We'll find her," she added, fingers squeezing lightly.

Cho's phone rang, and they collectively held their breaths. "Right," he said into the receiver, voice giving nothing away. "Okay."

He looked at them from across the top of his desk. "Thermal imaging confirms two hot spots in the building. We're up."

In a shorter amount of time than normally was possible, the team was suited and armed. Despite their speed, Jane was still waiting in the parking lot, pacing.

He touched the cross still nestled in his pocket.

There was a moment where he considered praying, despite his nonbelief, but decided that he was going to refuse to acknowledge any god that might take Lisbon away from him.

The others spilled into the lot at a run, and he pushed his ruminations away. He could fight with nonexistent deities later.

Right now, he had to go save the closest thing to a religion he had found in a decade. _She_ was his god, his hope, his moral compass.

He had lost his whole life once before. He wouldn't survive it again.

XxXxXxXxX

Dehydration was an ugly thing. The all-encompassing need, the _thirst_…it had a way of taking over her mind.

Rationally, she knew that she had another day or so before the serious effects would start in. However, logic had very little effect on the directions her thoughts kept taking.

She suspected it was on purpose, a way of distracting her from what she _should_ have been thinking about. She wondered for the millionth time if Red John had guessed the decision she'd made.

Obviously, it had crossed his mind when he had formulated this plan in the beginning, since he'd had an answer when she brought it up. He had just assumed that she could never hurt Jane that badly.

It was a stupid assumption, considering the other options she had. She smiled grimly, knowing that he had made a mistake.

Yes, it would hurt Jane, but it would protect him, and that was more important.

Twelve years of Catholic school and a lifetime of faith should have prevented her from doing such a thing, but she wasn't willing to save her morality at the cost of Jane's soul. She hoped that, when it was all over, that would count for something. Being willing to die for someone else had always struck her as an admirable thing. She had just never thought that she would have to go to such an extreme.

On top of her theological conundrums, she was faced with the problem of actually finding something with which she could carry out her task. All around her, the warehouse offered suggestions, but nothing within her reach.

It was almost ironically funny, and when she wasn't trembling with fear and panting for water, she could appreciate it. She wondered if she had gotten that from Jane – the ability to see humor in things that normally weren't remotely humorous.

She was torn between wanting to think of him all the time and wanting to never think of him again. To remember the innumerable smiles and gestures and the brilliance of his eyes and the way he held her when she was sleeping or to put him completely out of her mind, because if she kept thinking of him, there was a chance she would lose her courage.

And she didn't have the luxury of changing her plans because of cowardice.

Frustrated again, she yanked on the handcuffs that held her to the pipe. God, just a few more feet and she would have any number of solutions at the tips of her fingers.

_Feet_. That gave her an idea.

With much maneuvering and muffled swearing, she clawed off one shoe. She took renewed stock of her surroundings.

There was a set of shelves to her left, populated by empty glass jars. Taking a deep breath, she tossed the shoe as accurately as she could towards the top layer of containers. However, her normally precise aim was hampered by the cuffs locked around her wrists. The shoe hit her target, but not in the spot she had hoped.

The jar fell uselessly to the side.

She was down to her last chance.

Repeating her earlier motions, she yanked off her second shoe. Trying to take into account her present handicap, she lined up her shot once more. The trajectory was dead on this time, and shards of glass fell at her bare feet.

Sinking to her knees, she searched through the slivers, ignoring the small cuts, intent on finding a fragment large enough to suit her purposes.

When she came up with one, she let out a soft _ha_, then realized how absurd it was to be pleased about what she had found.

She studied the jagged piece of glass. For a few minutes, she contemplated hiding it, biding her time and waiting for Red John to return. He wouldn't be expecting it, and if she got lucky…

Reality took over, and she shook her head. That wasn't going to happen. She had a six inch reach, if she was being generous, and he would see the broken glass around her anyway.

Sucking in a deep, trembling breath, she sat flat on the cold cement, resting her back against the pipe.

"Hail Mary," she began, knowing that she didn't have any right to pray for a damn thing right now, but unable to stop herself. The rest of the well-memorized words fell out, but she wasn't thinking about them. Her mind was with Jane again. If this was the end for her, then she was going to spend it with him. And, she reasoned, assuming she wasn't eternally damned for her choices, she would still at least be able to watch out for him, always. The poignancy of that thought pricked her eyes, but she ignored the tears that fell.

"…pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

XxXxXxXxXxX

Even with the sirens blaring, it took far too long to race down to the docks. He kept his eyes closed on the way, blocking out the world around him.

SWAT was waiting for them, an army of men in Kevlar, armed with automatic weapons. He listened with rapt attention as the team leader outlined the plan, illustrated the routes the tactical units would take on the blueprints of the building.

"We think Agent Lisbon is here," the man said, pointing at a room on side opposite them. "The entire time we've been here, there's been no movement."

Jane felt bile start to crawl up in his throat.

"But," the leader went on, "her heat signature hasn't changed, so she's still alive." He looked around at the others. "Questions?"

No one spoke.

"Then let's roll."

With those words, SWAT and SCU stalked the building like well-oiled machines that they were. No more talking, just gestures and meaningful looks.

He hung well back, knowing he would just be in the way and running the risk of getting himself shot.

As an automatic precaution, an ambulance was present as well. He looked at it distastefully, wondering if it would be needed.

It was full dark now, and he searched for flashlight in the glove compartment of the Suburban. The police were inside the warehouse now, and he strained his ears.

Dimly, he realized that this was the moment he had been working towards for ten years. Red John was in the building in front of him, and he should be charging in with guns blazing. Instead, just like Lisbon had told him, law enforcement was going to catch him.

He made a brief, mental note to be galled later.

At that moment, shots rang out through the empty building. Too many shots. A hailstorm of bullets was flying inside, he could tell that.

Instinctively, he threw his arms up.

The silence that suddenly followed was oppressive, and he was unable to stand still longer. Running as fast as he could, he pushed through the metal doors, following the smell of gunpowder.

He wound up behind Cho, staring at what might have been the body of a man once. But there was no time now…

"Lisbon," he said, and the rest of the team turned towards him for a second.

Grace was the first to move, breaking from the line of officers and agents, skirting the carnage in the middle of the room, disappearing into the darkness beyond it. Jane was on her heels, Cho and Rigsby mere steps behind.

"Lisbon!" he yelled, wondering if he would hear her over the pounding of his heart.

The next three rooms they encountered were empty, and panic threatened to overwhelm him. There was a locked door at the end of the hallway.

"Lisbon!" he called again, voice hoarse.

With a nod to the rest of the team, Rigsby kicked the door in.

It took a few seconds to adjust to the dim light.

Back, almost against the wall, a dark shape was slumped against a water pipe. Jane rushed forward, not seeing the blood until he was almost there.

Frantically, he dropped to his knees.

"Lisbon," he said, almost a whisper, reaching to shake her shoulder. Her head lolled, and absolute terror knotted in his middle.

There was too much blood. He searched for the source with fumbling fingers. Her throat was fine, her chest unmarked… but her wrists…

The shard of glass was resting quietly on the floor next to her limp fingers.

In a second, he understood what she had done.

"_No_," he breathed. He wasn't going to allow it.

Hands shaking violently, he searched for a pulse, somewhere, anywhere. Avoiding her ruined wrists, he touched the base of her throat.

And there it was.

Faint. Threading. But _there._

"She's alive!" he yelled. "Get the paramedics! _Now!_"

XxXxXxXxXxX

**AN: **What, you didn't think I was going to leave you without a cliffhanger, did you? Have you been following this story _at all_?


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: **I know I said ten chapters, but it's probably going to be longer. Things just keep popping up that I have to address, and I hate loose ends!

Rest assured, I like happy endings. It's just taking a little bit longer for Jane and Lisbon to have one than I had originally planned. They'll get there, though, I promise.

And you can take off the protective gear and crash helmets now.

I continue to be overwhelmed by your responses. You guys really are the best.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter Nine**

At some point in the future, he was going to need to exact revenge on Grace. She had brought him tea in the waiting room, her expression nothing but concerned. Absently, he had sipped it, mind several rooms away where Lisbon was fighting for her life.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up several hours later, blanket wrapped around him, propped up in the vinyl hospital chair.

The redhead was sitting across from him, staring blankly at a magazine page.

"Did you drug me?" he demanded.

She didn't bother to look abashed. "Yes. You'd been awake for almost four days, Jane. You were going to collapse. Besides, there's nothing you can do right now."

Sitting up straight, he looked around the room. Rigsby and Cho were there as well, both looking uncomfortably asleep where they sat.

"Has there been any news?"

Grace shook her head. "Doctor's been out twice. No change. The good news is that visiting hours start soon."

He made an attempt to smile. It came out like a grimace.

"She'll survive," Grace said. "She's tougher than the rest of us combined. She'll make it."

Since Lisbon had been abducted, Grace had sought to comfort him, to keep him focused and to give him some perspective. He suspected that her words now were to give _herself_ hope as well.

He couldn't fault her for that.

Tossing the blanket aside, he stood and stretched, jacket falling to the floor from where it had been resting in his lap.

Grace stared at him. "Maybe you should change."

For the first time since arriving, he looked down at his shirt. He was covered in blood, not a drop of it his. His sleeves were almost hard, the white linen stained beyond any hope of redemption.

His eyes drifted off in the direction of the double doors that they had been forbidden to enter. Grace followed his gaze. "I'll call you if anything happens. But you'll give Lisbon a heart attack if she sees you looking like that when she wakes up."

"Alright," he finally said, quietly. "Can I have the keys?"

She smiled. "Cho grabbed your bag when he ran over to HQ for his stuff. It's right over there."

Now he could take the time to be legitimately thankful for the team. He probably would have gotten in an accident if he tried to drive across town in the mental state he was in.

He set out for the nearest bathroom he could find. When he emerged, less than fifteen minutes later, Lisbon's doctor was in the waiting room, directing his comments at Grace and a recently awakened Cho and Rigsby.

Everyone looked at him as he entered the room, and his heart stuttered a bit.

"Jane," Grace said. "Doctor Hooper says you can go in."

"She's in room 3906," the doctor told him. The expression on his face was compassionate, and Jane found it worrisome.

But, wordlessly, he walked back into the hall, following the room numbers until he arrived at his destination. With shaking hands, he pushed the door open and entered the room.

Lisbon was lying quietly in a pool of fluorescent light, dark hair resting against her shoulders. He watched the rise and fall of her chest for a few minutes, just to reassure himself that she was still breathing.

Slowly, he crossed the floor to stand by her bed. The noise of his shoes seemed unbearably loud.

She looked broken, he thought. Her skin was unnaturally pale, lacking its usual warmth and softness. Even in sleep, the shadows under her eyes looked etched there. Her lips were dry, cracked.

At her sides, her wrists were bandaged neatly, an IV in one of her hands.

Broken.

The word came to him again, and he sat heavily at her bedside. He rested his hand lightly against hers, not even daring to cover it fully. All he could possibly do was hurt her.

He put his head next to their hands and sobbed.

XxXxXxXxXxX

She remained in ICU for the rest of the day and night. Jane refused to leave her side, using bribery, charm, and blackmail to get what he wanted.

The doctors kept telling him that there was no predicting when she would open her eyes again. No one dared say _if_ she opened her eyes again.

He wasn't sure if that was because they actually believed that it was only a matter of time, or if it was because they were worried about his mental health.

It was strange – he had lived with the guilt of Angela and Charlotte's death for a decade. That guilt had become as much a part of him as his propensity for tea and his inability to follow directions. Over the years, he had become accustomed to it.

But it was all new again now.

Because of him, Lisbon was lying in a narrow bed, flesh held together by stitches, someone else's blood running through her veins because she had sacrificed too much of her own.

He kept trying and failing to deal with the implications of that. She had been willing to end her own life to save him from Red John's game. She had turned her back on everything she believed in, _for him_.

The scene in the warehouse stood out in his mind again. Her plan hadn't come together easily. She'd had to work to find something sharp enough to pierce her skin. He couldn't imagine the kind of determination that had taken.

And if he had been smarter, if he had put the pieces together sooner, she would have never needed to make that decision.

Never, if he lived to be one hundred, would he forget that. It was his fault.

Just like Charlotte and Angela were his fault. Everyone he loved, he hurt.

Several times during his vigil, he considered leaving. Just walking out of the room and out of her life. It would be the kindest thing he could do for her.

But then again, she wouldn't see it like that. She would see it as another betrayal, or assume it meant he didn't understand the significance of the sacrifice she had been willing to offer up.

And, in the end, he was far too selfish to leave her.

She was moved out of the ICU the following morning, despite having not woken up. According to her doctors, her vitals were now stable enough that she could thrive without intensive levels of assistance.

The new room was bigger, more private. It had actual furniture instead of molded plastic chairs. However, as far as Jane was concerned, nothing had changed. He pulled a recliner up to her beside and studied her face, willing her lashes to rise.

He was still scared to touch her, but that was what he wanted to do most in the world. Rest his head against her shoulder, twine their fingers together, listen to her breath float across his skin. But he kept his hands to himself, only lightly brushing her knuckles with his thumb.

That afternoon, he managed to snag a few hours of sleep, slumped forward in his chair. He had his arms folded on her bed, head pillowed there.

When his eyes opened, it took him moment to understand why.

Lisbon's fingers were running through his hair, smoothing the unruly curls.

Slowly, carefully, he turned his head to look at her. He was met with his favorite sight in the world – green eyes smiling at him.

"Hey," she whispered, lips turned upwards.

"Hey yourself," he breathed, and it sounded a little like a sob.

He held her eyes silently for a time, unwilling to let their connection go. No matter what Grace had been saying, or her doctors, he had spent the better part of three days convinced she was going to die.

Even now, memories of Sam Bosco were haunting him. Bosco, too, had woken up, had given everyone hope that he would recover. The fear started to choke him again.

Lisbon read his face. She was the only one he allowed to see him like this, no artifices, no masks. But she misunderstood his reasons for terror.

"How bad am I?" she breathed.

He gathered himself. "You're going to be fine," he said, hoping his voice was level.

"Jane," she said, brows furrowing. "Please tell me."

He smiled, hoping it looked reassuring. "Let me go get your doctor," he said, pushing up from his chair.

"Jane," she said again, reaching for his hand, but he was out of her range.

"Be right back, Lisbon," he told her, hating himself for the pain he saw in her face when he avoided her touch.

But he couldn't. Not just yet.

He stood in the corner of the room as the doctors examined her, arms crossed, eyes never leaving her face. Every time she winced at the doctors' prodding, his heart gave an echoing tug.

From his place against the wall, he watched Grace, Rigsby, and Cho hug Lisbon, Cho getting the closest to teary-eyed Jane had ever seen.

Lisbon returned their embraces enthusiastically, and though she seemed fine, he wasn't able to tear his eyes away from the pristine white bandages that hid the evidence of his most recent failure.

"So, guys," Lisbon said. "Someone tell me what happened."

Between the three team members, they managed to give an accurate accounting of everything that had occurred since she had been abducted.

At some point in the team's retelling, Jane came to sit on the edge of Lisbon's bed. He still didn't touch her, but he could feel the warmth of her body. That, at least, was soothing.

"Red John?" she asked eventually.

"Dead," Cho said, without emotion. "Still trying to work on an ID."

Suddenly, Jane realized that Red John had won one final battle. Jane had been so concerned about Lisbon that he hadn't taken the time to appreciate the fact that the son of a bitch who murdered his family was lying dead somewhere.

Right now, though, he couldn't feel anything about that. Dimly, he knew that at some point, he was going to have a breakdown of massive proportions. Too much had happened too quickly for him to process properly.

"So," Grace said, "did the doctors tell you when you can get out of this place?"

No one had asked what had propelled Lisbon into making the choice she had in the warehouse. Giving the barest amount of details, Jane had explained the situation they had found themselves in. Although he had yet to actually speak with Lisbon on the subject, he was certain that he knew what she had been trying to do. One final act to protect him.

He could tell that the rest of the team was a horrified as he was. Well, he reasoned, probably not _quite_ as horrified. But, like him, they had all understood her choice.

"Tomorrow morning, hopefully," Lisbon said in answer to Grace's question. "No idea when I'll be back at work."

"That's the least of your concerns," Jane told her, speaking for the first time in what felt like forever.

She met his eyes, and again, he saw her hurt and confusion. He wanted to comfort her, wanted to tell her _why_ he was struggling so much right now, but for reasons he didn't understand, he couldn't.

The rest of the team, far from blind to the tension in the room didn't stay much longer. "Take it easy," Cho advised. "And let us know if you need anything."

Lisbon smiled at them as they walked out the door, her affection obvious.

"You should be proud of them," he told her. "They did exactly what you trained them to do, and they were successful."

She nodded, then shifted uncomfortably.

"How are you feeling?" he asked immediately. "Should I get a nurse?"

"I'm fine, Jane," she said dismissively. "It's just…" She trailed off, and he saw the pain in her eyes.

"Just what?" he asked, unconsciously leaning closer.

"You," she whispered.

He pulled back. "What about me?"

She took a deep breath. "Look, Jane, I'm sorry for what I did. I'm sorry if it…upset you. But it was the only choice I thought I had. If you want to be mad about it, or think I'm a coward and that I was taking the easy way out, that's fine. I just hope you forgive me for it someday."

He stared. "What the hell are you talking about? Why would I be mad at you?"

Her brows furrowed. "You're not?"

"No," he said slowly, emphatically. "Never once did it cross my mind to be mad at you."

Instead of clearing, her expression became even more confused. "Then why are you acting like this?"

He passed a hand over his face. He wasn't sure if he was ready to have this conversation, but it looked like he didn't get an option. "I'm mad at myself, Teresa."

She blinked. "Why?"

"That's not obvious?" he asked. "I almost got you killed."

Lisbon shook her head. "Sorry to burst your self-hating bubble," she said, anger rising, "but I think I beat you to the punch on that one."

"Oh, please," he said angrily. "You did the equivalent of jumping on a grenade to save the rest of the people in the foxhole. It's my fault there was a grenade there in the first place."

"Patrick Jane," she said after a brief pause. "Do you have any idea how tempted I am to slap you right now? A little egotistical, aren't we?" she added, voice softer. "Not everything is under your control."

"This was," he said. "I've known forever that you were my weak spot. I should have either pulled away or done a better job of protecting you."

Crossing the lines he'd drawn, she reached to touch his face, her bandage catching on the rough edge of his unshaven jaw. "It's not your job to protect me. And as bad as this is, it would have hurt me more if you would have pulled away, would have left." Her voice radiated sincerity, affection. Love.

Gently, he leaned into her touch. For the second time in two days, he felt tears pool in his eyes. Her arm fell slowly away, and he understood that she couldn't hold it up for that long.

He did what he should have done to start with – cover her hand with his own, let her know that he was there. She was the one that had just fought her way back from the brink of death, and she was comforting _him_.

How typically Lisbon. So willing to give every last bit of herself to those she loved.

Lightly, he traced the tip of one finger over the dark smudges below her eyes. "Get some rest. Suffering from exhaustion isn't going to help you get discharged tomorrow."

"What about you?" she whispered.

He widened his eyes innocently. "Me? Well, if you recall, I was taking a relaxing nap this afternoon when someone woke me up."

They shared a genuine smile, and he felt something loosen in his chest. He leaned down and softly kissed her forehead, eyes fluttering shut. "Go to sleep, Teresa. I'll be here when you wake up," he promised.

She made one last effort to look serious. "You'd better be." Her eyelids fluttered shut, but the sight was no longer terrifying.

"I love you," he mouthed, when he was sure she couldn't see.

This wasn't over, not even close, but they were calling a truce for the night. At some point, he was going to extract a promise from her that she would never do something like this again. Of course, she would break it if she thought it was the right thing to do.

Sometimes, she was absolutely hopeless. But she was his Teresa Lisbon, and wouldn't trade that.

And, despite what she had argued, this _was_ still his fault. Nothing would make up for that, but he intended to try.

He only hoped it would be enough.

XxXxXxXxXxX

**AN: **Sigh. Jane is more emotionally tortured than I counted on in the beginning, so forgive him if he takes some time to figure the whole picture out.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN**: No crash helmets or riot gear needed for the chapter today, either. I'm slacking off in the cliffhanger department.

Thank you for your overwhelming support, guys.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter Ten**

At eleven in the morning the next day, she was allowed to walk out of the hospital, Jane at her side.

True to his word, he had stayed in her room until she'd woken up. She felt a little guilty about that; he probably would have liked an actual bed and a shower, but not so guilty that she would wish him away.

Besides, she was worried about him. His whole demeanor seemed fragile, like he was one deep breath away from shattering. He was quieter than he normally was, less self-assured, much like the Jane he had been when they were first introduced.

If he was blaming himself for what had happened, she was going to shoot him in the kneecap. The man blamed himself for far too much already. It didn't matter that she physically wouldn't be able to hold the gun for a while. She would find a way.

She wondered how he was coping with the knowledge that Red John was dead. Really dead this time. His demise had been the culmination of a decade-long search, and from what she understood, he hadn't made any sort of reaction to it at all.

It wasn't good, keeping something like that in, and she watched him with troubled eyes as he stowed their things in the trunk of his car. Perhaps he was just avoiding the situation altogether for a while.

That still wasn't a great plan, but it was better than him pretending everything was just fine.

"Ready to go?" Jane asked, holding her door open.

"You bet," she replied, settling herself into the passenger side. Buckling her seatbelt was a trick; her wrists wouldn't rotate properly and protested in agony when she tried to make them. Jane noticed her discomfort, but said nothing, knowing that she would fight off any suggestion of help.

She was grateful when he pulled away from the curb. There was a definite tendency to treat people in the hospital as though they were made of glass, and it was driving her insane.

Even Jane had seemed more than a little scared of touching her. That had been disappointing; she had been entertaining fantasies of him climbing into the narrow bed with her and chasing away the lingering chills from her time in the warehouse, even days later.

But the first thing she had seen when she opened her eyes was Jane, asleep with his head resting on his arms, bent over her bedside rail. That counted for something. She had even gotten to run her hands through his hair, something she had dreamed of doing for years.

"Do you want to stop for lunch?" Jane asked, merging onto the freeway.

She shook her head. Real food sounded good, but going in somewhere, wrists still freshly bandaged was in no way appealing. As much as she still agreed with the choice she had made, she wasn't ready to face the judgmental eyes of the public.

Eventually, she hoped the gashes on her arms would fade from angry red to pink, and then to white, barely visible against her perpetually pale skin.

Unconsciously, she tugged her sleeves down. "Can we just order when we get to my place?"

His eyes followed the small movement. "Sure."

Her apartment startled her, chocolate brown accent wall standing out against the cream furniture. She realized with a shock that she hadn't been home since the morning after they had painted. "I forgot about that," she murmured, gesturing.

"Me, too," he admitted, putting her bag on the floor by the couch. "It still looks good, though. I have excellent taste."

In the natural light streaming in through her windows, she could see the harsh lines on Jane's face. He looked exhausted. The past few days had been very hard on him, she could tell. His jacket was unbuttoned, suit wrinkled, and his face was downright bristly.

"When was the last time you slept?" she asked, turning to look at him.

He raised an eyebrow. "What do you want to eat?" he asked, skirting her question. "I'll order, you go shower or whatever."

Although she had showered the night before in the hospital, the prospect of soft water and scented soap was phenomenally appealing. Jane saw her hesitation and knew he had won this brief, non-argument.

"Go," he said again, softly.

She conceded his victory, heading for the stairs. "I want french fries," she told him.

"Excellent, Lisbon. Very healthy choice." He rolled his eyes as he sorted through the takeout menus stacked on her small desk.

As juvenile as it was, she had to resist the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

"Yell if you need something," he called after her.

"Like help washing my back?" she asked brazenly, glad he couldn't see the blush staining her cheeks. She had injected enough sarcasm in the comment so that it was just teasing, but it was still an edgy subject, at least for her.

"I'd be very thorough, I promise," he shot back, after a small pause.

Still smiling, her pushed her door open.

Her bedroom was just as she had left it from earlier in the week, comforter kicked to the floor, covers rumpled. It gave her a strange feeling, knowing that the last time she had been in this bed, Jane had been with her.

The shower was as blissful as she'd expected, even allowing for the fact that her wrists were covered in plastic wrap. The hospital shampoo had turned her hair into a tangled mess of that felt like straw, and the soap had dried out her skin. Real bath and body products had a spa-like feel now, even if she had just gotten hers at the supermarket.

Drying off was another trial, but she managed the task and pulled on the oldest, softest sweats she possessed.

Jane was sitting on the couch when she went downstairs, staring off into space.

"Shower's free," she told him, hunting through the fridge for something carbonated and sugary. "Maybe you could do something about the hobo look you've been sporting for the past couple of days."

"That actually sounds fantastic," he said, a grateful note in his voice.

He emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later with damp hair, freshly shaven, and smelling almost sinfully good.

"Ah," he said with his typical levity. "I feel almost human again."

There was a knock on the door. "Stay put," he told her.

The fries were delicious, and so was the club sandwich he had ordered for her. After the blandness of her hospital fare, this was heavenly. She dumped salt and ketchup over her food with something approaching glee.

With a distasteful eye, Jane looked at her meal. "When you give yourself high cholesterol, don't say I didn't warn you."

She threw a fry at him.

After their early lunch, she made a show of yawning. "I think a nap is in order. On a real mattress."

He nodded. "Enjoy yourself."

She pursed her lips. "Jane," she began, softly. "You don't have to stay here, you know." She didn't want to seem like she was ungrateful or unappreciative for what he had done. But she also knew babysitting her wasn't the most fun he could be having.

"I know," he said, smiling gently. "But I'm staying here anyway."

And she knew that was the end of it.

She resisted the urge to flop ingloriously onto her bed. It sounded like a good idea, but would more than likely wind up hurting like hell. She had never realized how much she actually relied on her wrists before she was denied access to them.

Her bed was soft, comfortable, and one of her pillows still had a trace of Jane's cologne on it. Absently, she wondered if she had processed what had happened properly yet.

She had been kidnapped. She had made a valiant attempt to take her own life. She had broken almost every rule of her faith all in the span of several hours. From what she understood, she had come extremely close to actually dying.

She was probably entitled to some sort of mental breakdown.

Strangely, though, she felt calm. Or maybe _detached_ was the better word. She suspected it was a defense mechanism - her mind's way of protecting her from more trauma. She wasn't looking forward to when the numbness lifted.

It was definitely going to be painful. Great.

Despite her exhaustion - she had almost_ died_, after all - sleep wasn't forthcoming. Instead, she lay on her side, back to the door.

Jane was so quiet that if she_ had_ been asleep, she wouldn't have noticed. As it was, she had to strain her ears for a few moments to be sure she wasn't just imaging things.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her back still to him.

"I thought you were sleeping," he said from the doorway, surprised.

"That was the plan," she said, rolling to face him. "But my brain didn't want to cooperate." They stared at each other for a few moments. "You still didn't tell me what you were doing here."

His smile was small, embarrassed. "Checking on you. I find myself with a compulsion to make sure you're still breathing."

She scowled. "Don't be ridiculous. You need to sleep, Jane, probably more than I do."

"Humor me," he said.

There was a pause while she thought. "Come here," she finally said. "You can be overprotective, which makes you happy, _and_ you can rest, which makes me happy."

He hesitated, and she was scared he would walk away. Then he let out a breath, relaxed his shoulders, and padded across the floor.

When he was lying next to her, he turned, holding out his arms. Surprised, but without missing a beat, she curled against him, resting her head on his chest.

She felt his lips on the top of her head, and she thought her heart might burst.

"Do you have any idea of how terrified I was?" he whispered.

Some of her happiness abated. They had barely touched on this topic at the hospital, and she wasn't sure she wanted to bring it back up. But if Jane needed to talk, she would let him.

"I'm sorry," was the only thing she could think to say.

His hold on her tightened. "Did you think of me at all before you made your choice?"

The childish answer was to remind him that he had promised he wasn't mad at her. But she owed him more than that. "You were all I thought about."

"Then why, _why_ did you go through with it?" She could hear the ragged edge of pain in his words, simmering just beneath the surface.

She shrugged. "Your soul was worth more than my life." It was the same justification she had given herself, and she believed it as much as she ever had.

"Not by a long shot," he argued. "And if you ever try something like that again, I'm going to lock you in a closet until you're ninety."

She knew he had forgiven her then, and she focused on listening to his heart. It was pounding too hard, still.

Jane wasn't himself. It was obvious that he was working through several things. But his arms were around her, his warmth permeating her skin.

They were together, at least, whatever that meant.

Bravely, she pressed a kiss into his chest, through the fabric of his shirt. His scent wrapped around her, and she closed her eyes.

The last thing she consciously remembered was Jane shifting on to his side, cradling her head in the crook of his arm. His other hand settled at her waist, and then she was dreaming, drifting away in the deep current of exhaustion and peace.

XxXxXxXxX

Jane woke up to Lisbon screaming, his adrenaline already pounding through his veins. Through the darkness, he could see her struggling next to him, and without thinking, he reached for her wrists.

Her screams took on a new edge of pain, but she opened her eyes suddenly.

A nightmare, he realized. She had been having a nightmare.

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, not taking her wrists into account, and she cried out again.

"Jesus," he murmured, carefully putting his hands on her shoulders. She leaned into him, breath coming in sharp, shaking pants. "It's alright," he told her, smoothing her hair away from her face. "It was just a bad dream."

She turned into his neck, and he felt her tears. He wasn't sure if it was because of the nightmare of because of the new stress to her injuries.

Carefully, he pulled her all the way into his embrace, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

The darkness of the room told him they had slept most of the day away.

He counted her breaths as she calmed back down, running his hands up and down her back. "It's alright," he whispered again. "Everything is okay."

When she had stopped shuddering, he eased back from her slowly. Her eyelashes were wet.

"Can I get you some painkillers?" he asked, knowing that his ill-timed grasp had probably caused her excruciating pain, and hating himself for it.

"If you wouldn't mind," she whispered, and he knew that for her to admit to such a thing was a very big deal indeed.

He swung out of bed and made for the bathroom, rifling around until he found the rattling bottle of prescription pills. He filled the cup next to the sink up with cool water, then returned to Lisbon, flicking on the lamp on the bedside table.

Her green eyes were large and luminous in the sudden light, and her face was too pale. Sitting back down, he handed her the pills and glass, watching carefully as she swallowed.

The cup shook in her hands.

In a moment, they were back under the cover of darkness, and he was reaching for her again. She was on her side this time, and he curled himself around her, his nose almost touching the back of her neck.

Residual tremors still shivered through her body, and he wondered what her nightmare was about. He could make a good guess.

Perhaps, however, it wasn't such an awful thing. She was going to have a reaction sometime. He would much rather it be when he was there.

He could say the same thing about himself - that he was bound to have a reaction. He kept waiting for it to happen, waiting for it to hit.

But there was no crushing sense of emotion, no newfound feeling of freedom. There was just...nothing.

Possibly, his brain was doing him a favor, waiting to have a breakdown until Lisbon was well and truly recovered. He doubted it, though. In reality, he might still be in shock, unable to come to terms with the past week.

God, had it really just been a week? He thought back. Yes, a week ago exactly, he had laid in this bed beside her for the first time, giving into a decade of suppressed urges.

And here he was again. Coming full circle, and all of that.

With one notable exception, he couldn't remember so much ever changing in such short of a time span. Too fast, it was all happening too fast.

He needed to slow down, to take a step back.

But Lisbon chose that moment to wrap her fingers around two of his, and he knew he wasn't willing to go in reverse.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "Nope."

"If you change your mind, I'll be right here," he told her, breath stirring the fine hairs at the base of her neck.

"I know," she said, voice hardly above a whisper.

And as long as she did, really, that was all that mattered.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN**: Wow. I'm utterly floored by the response to the last chapter. Floored.

A quick heads up: we're going to have a rating change in a bit. Not this chapter, but it's coming. Ha. I just realized I made a dirty pun. Ha ha ha.

...Alright, I'm done.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter 11**

Jane woke up to the sensation of Lisbon playing with his fingers. Early morning light was streaming through the curtains, giving the entire room a golden glow. It was warm, peaceful.

"Good morning," he murmured, propping himself up on one elbow to peer down at her. She was still on her side, facing away from him, one of his arms tucked around her waist.

"Hi," she said.

"Any more nightmares?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nope." She wrapped both of her arms around the one he had draped over her.

Smiling, he lowered himself back to the mattress, pressing his nose into her hair. He had always known Teresa Lisbon would be a cuddly sort.

They laid in silence, both content with where they were. Well, he thought he would probably be a touch more content if he ever got to sleep in this bed when he wasn't wearing a suit. It was a minor detail, however.

He wondered how long they had slept. Through most of the afternoon and then the night, apparently. It had literally been ten years since he'd been out for so long.

Eventually, she untangled herself from him. "Time for pain killers," she said, almost apologetically.

He watched her leave the room, then sprawled in the middle of her bed, stretching.

Some of the fear he had been feeling since Lisbon had been abducted was starting to fade. He suspected that spending the night with her twined around him had been very healing. She had woken up, she was still breathing.

She might not even hate him for failing to spare her from a horrific choice.

They were going to have to talk about that, soon. More than just a whispered conversation, punctuated by near sobs and rapid heartbeats.

He thought, had thought for years, that she knew him better than anyone. Clearly, he was mistaken if she honestly believed that her death wouldn't destroy him.

He would have chosen the other option. He would have done whatever it took to keep her breathing. It didn't matter that he would have become her enemy, that his death might now be at her hands. If she had died, it would have been anyway.

But in typical fashion, she had chosen to sacrifice herself for the greater good. She had been doing it her entire life, first for her family. She had never gotten to be a typical teenager, plagued by boyfriends and petty jealousy. Instead, she shouldered a grown woman's burden to keep her family together. Knowing her, she hadn't thought twice about it.

And then she had given her life for her job. She was beautiful, intelligent, grounded. She should be someone's wife right now, someone's mother. But she chose the bigger picture again, marrying justice and her badge.

It made him feel like a horrible person, but he was glad of it. If she had taken the smart option, the selfish option, God only knows where he would be right now.

Under a bridge somewhere, probably, if he was lucky.

She had taken a chance on him, given him something to live for again.

Now, almost a decade later, he had finally found his way to her.

And she had nearly taken herself away.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair, swinging himself up. He'd had aspirations of spending the day in bed with her, limbs tangled together, but he was too worked up for that now.

The coffee was just percolating when Lisbon joined him in the kitchen. He could tell by her drawn face that she was in pain.

"Sorry," he said. "I should have set an alarm, woken you up before all the drugs worked their way out of your system."

She shook her head. "I needed a good night's rest more than I needed pain medicine, Jane."

That might have been true, but he _had_ grasped both of her wrists in the middle of the night, and she certainly hadn't needed _that_.

He handed her a cup of coffee, then sat across from her at the table. "What are your plans for the day? Catching up on your soap operas?"

"You bet," she said, "Because, you know, there's not enough drama in my own life." She paused thoughtfully. "I never got the chance to ask you - how's your house?"

Jane blinked. "Honestly, it hasn't crossed my mind since I found out you were gone." He frowned. "When I left, the fire department thought they could maybe save some of it." Distractedly, he touched his wedding ring. "I suppose it doesn't really matter. It's not like there was anything in it."

Only ghosts and memories, he added in his head. Only the specter of loss, and the reminder that he'd been too blind and stupid to save his wife and daughter. He'd used to think he could hear Charlotte shrieking with laughter as she pedaled her tricycle down the halls, but those days were long gone.

Whatever expression was on his face, it concerned Lisbon, and she reached across the table to take his hand. His _ri_ght hand, he noticed. He let her, the heat and the pressure of her fingers soothing.

"Jane," she said, very softly. "Go, if you need to."

It wasn't until she said it aloud that he realized yes, he did need to.

"Are you sure?" he was still compelled to ask.

She nodded, releasing his hand.

Five minutes later, he was shrugging his jacket on, scooping up his keys from where he had tossed them. Lisbon had watched his progress with unreadable eyes, still at the table.

He paused, standing in front of her. "Promise me you'll call if you need something."

"I promise," she said quietly.

He wanted to hold her again, wanted to take her into his arms and feel her responding embrace. Wanted to kiss her, to reassure her that he would come back to her.

But it felt distasteful, sharing a kiss with one woman while his mind kept dragging him back to another. And both Angela and Lisbon deserved better.

Instead, he smiled shakily and left.

After an uneventful drive, he was met with the smoldering shell of what was once his home. The downstairs was completely unsalvageable, and almost unrecognizable. Carefully, he picked his way through the wreckage until he found the staircase.

He tested his weight on each step, hoping the whole thing wouldn't collapse underneath him.

The upstairs hall was sooty, walls cracked.

Like always, the door at the end was shut. He was starting to develop an understandable phobias of hallways with closed doors. First, Angela and Charlotte. And then Lisbon. It seemed like nothing good was ever waiting for him.

His bedroom was blackened as well, the mattress on the floor reduced to cinders. Above it, the smiling red face that had haunted him for years was gone.

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

He could feel it, what he had been waiting for, starting to crawl through his veins. In the closet, under charred shelves and frayed wires, he found what he was looking for.

The small fireproof safe looked unharmed, despite the wreckage around it.

With fingers that shook slightly, he dialed in the combination, sitting on the ash-strewn floor. He hadn't opened this box in nine years, but it was time.

Charlotte's birth certificate was the first thing he found. He didn't bother to fight the tears as he traced the tiny inked footprints with his fingers.

His marriage license was next in line. _Bride's name after marriage_, it read. _Angela Jane._ Her wedding ring was there, too, the diamond winking up at him.

They had been married before he had made all of his useless money, and her ring was correspondingly modest. The plain gold band that was soldered underneath the solitaire matched the one she had given him.

Clumsily, he pulled the circlet from his own finger and rested it beside Angela's ring. After all, they were a pair. They belonged together.

At the bottom of the box, two unopened envelopes sat. He knew what they said, but he still couldn't bring himself to touch them. _Certificate of Death_.

That was his entire life up until now. Strange to think that it could all be kept in one unimpressive container.

What was he supposed to do now? He whole reason for being was to avenge Angela and Charlotte. He hadn't even managed to that properly.

The moment had passed, but he was still there. Still waiting.

His burning need for revenge had been consuming him for years, and now it was extinguished, and he was unsettled by its absence. It had been a part of him for so long now.

Where did he go from here?

Did he move on?

Did he even want to move on?

What sort of person did it make him if he _did_?

He gathered up the contents of the box, closed the lid again. Tucking it under his arm, he walked out of the room with the understanding that he wasn't coming back here again.

He blew a kiss at Angela's memory, then paused at the door of Charlotte's room. He pressed his fingers to his lips, then touched the ruined wood almost reverently.

Down the stairs, out the door again. He put the safe in the front seat of his car, then made his way around the back of the property, following the slope of the beach until it reached the ocean.

The coastline curved around, and he retraced a route he had found many years ago. There was a small cove, nestled back from the crashing waves. Shedding his shoes and socks, he dropped onto the sand and dipped his feet into the water.

His left hand felt frighteningly light and wrong.

It was over, this quest he had been on. The last remaining link to his wife and daughter was gone now. There was noting left to hold him to them.

Once the tears started again, he had no way to stymie them. He cried for the years he had been without them, for everything he had missed.

Every milestone of Charlotte's life that hadn't happened. Every wedding anniversary gift he hadn't given. Every stolen kiss, every whispered_ I love you_. Every family dinner, vacation, silly argument he had solved by making some ridiculous gesture. Every quiet evening with just them where he had never realized how much he had been given.

He cried out his grief, buried for almost ten years, and his loneliness.

His guilt he would keep.

When he had choked out the last sob, he rose, uselessly wiping at his face. Saying goodbye now was harder than it was the first time, when he was forced to do it. Now it was something he had consciously decided to do. But maybe _goodbye_ wasn't right. Maybe he was letting them go, leaving them in peace.

It was almost dark when he got back in his car. He sat for a few minutes, gripping the steering wheel.

Absently, he checked his phone.

He had four missed calls from Lisbon, and several texts.

_How's it look down there?_ She had sent it an hour or so after he had arrived.

_Doing okay?_

_If you need to talk, call me._

_Jane. Answer me._

His call log told him her last attempt to reach him was a half hour ago. He pushed the 'redial' button.

She answered on the first ring. "Jane." He heard the relief.

"Hi," he said. His voice was scratchy, soft.

"Are you still in Malibu?" she asked, careful with her words now.

"Just getting ready to take off," he told her. "Do you mind if I come to your place?"

"Of course," she said instantly. There was a pause. "Are you okay?"

For the first time since that morning, he smiled. "I think I might be."

She didn't have a response, so he went on. "How are you doing? Taking your painkillers like you're supposed to be? Have you eaten today?"

"I'm fine, yes, and yes," she said, sounding exasperated now as she answered his questions. "Just be careful when you're driving, alright?"

"I will be," he promised. "I miss you," he added impulsively. For he found that he did, very much at that moment.

"I miss you, too." There was a smile in her voice. "Come home soon."

_Home_. What a novel concept.

Malibu had been home for the happiest years of his life. When it had been taken away from him, he had discovered that home wasn't a place. It was the people he loved.

"I will," he told Lisbon. "See you soon."

He ended the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

For the final time, he drove the Citroen out of the driveway. Surprisingly, he didn't feel the need to look back. He had freed something inside himself today. Something feather-light and buoyant.

He was hopeful, he finally decided, and more than a little scared about it.

Hope was something he had been given in extremely limited quantities for most of his life. His natural optimism made up for some of that, but never when it came to him personally.

He turned the wheel of his car, merging onto the freeway heading north. In a little over seven hours, he would be back in Sacramento, back to the life he had somehow managed to construct.

If he was lucky, he would be in Lisbon's bed, her welcoming arms around him. Whatever relationship they were building together, he would do anything to keep it, keep her.

He glanced behind him before changing lanes. In the dark, with the neon lights shining around him like earth-bound stars, he felt almost surreal.

Almost, but he had an anchor.

Smiling again, he settled back into his seat, trying to get comfortable for the journey back.

The journey home.

**AN:** Confession: I cried almost the entire time I was writing Jane saying goodbye. Of all the chapters in the story so far, this was easily the most difficult to do. I think it's the whole "being a mommy" thing. It gets me right in the feels.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: **Okay, folks. Fair warning: this chapter is M(ish). I went for vague (some of the time…er…occasionally) and tried to keep it tasteful, but I refuse to write entirely in euphemisms, so if this isn't your cup of tea, I would suggest skipping the last part of the chapter, after the point of view shifts. You've been warned.

For the rest of you: please read the _first_ part of the chapter, too, instead of skipping ahead to the sexytime parts. Ahem. Which, you know, is something I would never do. Ever. Yeah.

I'm estimating two more chapters until we're done, or maybe one more with an epilogue. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed; you guys rock.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter Twelve**

She'd had every intention of staying awake until Jane got back. After all, she reasoned, how was he going to get in? But as the hours passed, she found herself moving from the couch to her bed.

She was wrapped in her blankets before she realized she had automatically left the other side of the bed open. Although he had only slept there twice, in her mind, it was already _his side_. It was a dangerous thought.

It had been a very long day. At the outside, she had expected to be by herself for at least sixteen hours. There were a very limited number of activities she was up to doing, additionally.

She had slept. She had dutifully eaten. She had watched several movies, and kept a schedule of when she was due for pain medication.

By five-thirty, she was ready to climb the walls, figuratively if not literally.

Jane wasn't returning any of her calls or messages. Petulantly, she thought about his earlier words – "call me if you need me." It was a good thing she hadn't had an emergency.

She realized she was being petty and selfish and tried to stop. Truthfully, she was worried about him. She had no idea what he was doing in Malibu, but the image she had of him in her head, standing helplessly in the middle of a pile of ashes, broke her heart.

Only the knowledge that she would be totally useless to help him was holding her in Sacramento. Well, that and the fact she was on some pretty heavy duty painkillers.

She had taken a peek at her wrists earlier in the day. Although they were healing, they still looked like a nightmare. Stitches and torn flesh, an ugly memento of her time spent as Red John's captive.

At least she knew she would never forget. Scars were excellent permanent reminders, a roadmap that traced actions and decisions. Every time she saw these particular marks, she would remember what she had been willing to give up.

They weren't the first scars she had gotten trying to save Patrick Jane, and she doubted they would be the last. That definitely said something about her lifestyle, and she was sure it was nothing good.

Absently, she checked the clock on her nightstand. There were still three hours to go before she could even begin to expect him.

She should have told him to stay in Malibu. Judging by his voice, he had been in a tenuous emotional state. Getting a hotel would have been smarter than driving halfway up the damn coast. But it was Jane – since when did he do the smart thing or listen to her advice?

Besides, she would be lying to herself if she said she wasn't just a little thrilled that he had asked if he could come to her place. Honestly, she had basically assumed he would, but that had been presumptuous. He didn't live there, he wasn't her boyfriend. He was under no obligation to check in with her.

She frowned. No, he wasn't her boyfriend, but he was something more than just a friend, especially lately.

Grace told her that Jane had refused to leave her side when she was unconscious in the hospital, and that he had hardly slept the whole time she had been abducted. The other woman had also confessed to lacing his tea with high potency sleeping pills because she had been so concerned for him.

Lisbon had been both grateful and amused. Grateful that someone had been looking out for Jane when she wasn't able to, and amused at the route Grace had taken. Jane tended to hyper focus on a problem, especially when it was close to his heart. He usually needed to take a step back, but it wasn't easy to make him. Maybe she would emulate Grace the next time Jane got too involved.

Sighing, she tugged the covers further over herself. No, she wouldn't resort to drugging Jane, no matter how much she sometimes might want to.

She contemplated turning off the lamp on her bedside table, but decided against it. Childishly, she kept coming back to the nightmare she'd had earlier.

Naturally, she had found herself back in the warehouse, handcuffed to the unyielding pipe, the chill of the concrete seeping into her bones.

In her dream, she had given into the fear and panic that she had fought so hard against. The hysteria was overwhelming.

The footsteps had approached her once more, but this time, instead of a masked Red John, it was Jane making his way down the corridor.

"I'm sorry," he had whispered, kneeling beside her.

He had kissed her then, but his lips and been cold, and she had tasted blood. She felt the familiar pain in her wrists again, but now the shard of glass was held between Jane's fingers.

She imagined the real pain of Jane's actual grasp had woken her at that point.

In a second of confused fear, she had pushed herself up, away from him. The second wave of throbbing agony had brought her back to her senses. Leaning into Jane's warm embrace, she had tried to focus her breathing, not realizing she was crying until the tears actually fell.

It was her worst fear incarnate, that Jane would fall under Red John's spell, that he would sunk into the glamour of evil deeply enough that he would betray her.

In another, detached part of her brain, she wondered if the dream didn't mean that she subconsciously blamed Jane for what had happened to her. Now _that_ was an outrageous thought. _She_ was the one who had held the glass to her wrists. _She_ was the one who had gritted her teeth against the pain until her grisly task was as complete as she could make it.

Did this make her suicidal? Was that how people would classify her?

The thought horrified her. Under normal circumstances, she would have never even considered the path she had chosen. Her religion forbade it, as did her conscious.

But for Jane, whom she loved more than faith, there were no roads she wouldn't travel.

Still, no one felt guilt like a Catholic, especially a Catholic who had flaunted canon law so dramatically. It was eating at her, like a cancer, weighing heavily upon her heart.

She could go to confession, but she doubted there were any number of Hail Marys that would ease her mind, especially considering the last time she'd said that particular prayer, she had literally believed it was "at the hour of her death, amen."

Maybe, with time, she could learn to live with it.

She drifted off into an uneasy sleep, fitful and waking often.

The alarm clock told her it was two-thirty in the morning when she heard footsteps on the stairs.

In a moment, Jane appeared in the doorway, looking more than a little worn out. His jacket was gone, vest hanging open. In the glare from the lamp, the shadows under his eyes were very pronounced.

When he saw she was awake, however, he still smiled warmly. "Still awake? I'm surprised."

"You must've woken me up," she told him, groggily. "How'd you get in? I know I locked the door."

He perched on the edge of her bed. "Do you really think a builder grade deadbolt would keep me out?" Almost tenderly, he pushed a lock of hair away from her face. He smelled like ash and the sea.

"I'm glad you made it back safely," she whispered sleepily.

He kissed her forehead and she gave into the impulse to wrap her arms around him. Jane returned her embrace, cheek resting on top of her hair.

"I'm glad too," he breathed.

"How was Malibu?" she asked, eyes closed.

Gently he eased her back. "How about I tell you after I shower? I feel like I've been rolling in soot. And sand, for that matter," he added.

"Sure," she said, releasing her hold on him.

After he left, she relaxed back against the pillows, heart lighter than it had been all day. Tranquil now, she drifted off well before Jane was out of the shower.

She woke again to him sliding under the covers, his arms pulling her flush against his body, the room in total darkness now. He was restful for a few minutes, one hand gently running through her hair. Then, abruptly, he pushed himself up, peering over her shoulder at the luminous numbers of the alarm clock.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, robbed of his warmth.

He chuckled, then lowered himself back to the mattress. "When I left Malibu," he told her, "I said that I wanted to be right _here_," he tightened his arms briefly, "in just over seven hours."

She hid her broad smile in his chest. "Did you make it?"

"Seven hours and twenty one minutes," he said. "Not bad."

"You were actually here earlier," she told him, arm around his waist. "You just took a shower."

She could feel his smile. "I wanted to be _in_ this bed, Teresa. Not just sitting on it."

She didn't have a good reply to such a statement, so she kept silent, content to dwell on the joy his words were bringing her.

"Tell me about your house," she finally said, and Jane captured her hand. Very carefully, he ran his thumb along the outer edge of her bandage.

"It's a disaster," he said, voice flat. "I'm having it torn down. When that's done, I'll sell the property."

She froze. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," he said. "I have no desire to go back there again."

"Just like that?" she couldn't help but ask.

He laugh quietly, and she felt the sound echo in his chest. "No, not _just like that_. It's been a long time coming. There's just nothing left there to hold me."

She pondered his words. He'd spent the day letting go, she realized, making as much peace with his past as he could. For wont of any other gesture to make, she placed a kiss over his heart through the thin material of his shirt.

"That's a good thing," he murmured.

"It is, isn't it?" He laced their fingers together, lips touching his temple. "Let's go to sleep," he suggested. "I almost passed out twelve times on my way back here." He drug the comforter over them.

"Are you sure you're alright?" she was compelled to ask.

He sighed. "I will be," he said. "It was a rough day. But it was necessary. It was good. And I get to end it by sleeping next to you, which I've recently discovered is one of my very favorite things."

His words were meant to assuage her concern, and maybe to convince himself a little, too, she thought.

But she gave in, snuggling as close as she could get to him.

She fell asleep counting his heartbeats.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Unsurprisingly, he was up just before dawn. Old habits died hard, he thought ruefully.

Lisbon was pressed against him, one leg thrown over his, almost like she was holding him in place. It was a very unnecessary precaution – Hell freezing might get him to move, but not much else would do the trick.

He closed his eyes and tried to doze, but his mind was fully awake. Yesterday had been emotionally exhaustive, and by all rights he should be entitled to another stretch of dreamless sleep.

At least Lisbon was resting.

Her dark hair had drifted over both of them, her arm wrapped tightly around him, even in sleep. He adored the expression of absolute tranquility on her face.

The intimacy they had shared recently was almost staggering, considering where they had been just a few short weeks ago. They had been doing a slow, circular dance for a very long time now, and they had both abruptly moved forward. It was the idea of losing her that had finally done it, the thought that he might have to live his life without her.

In a moment of complete irony, he realized Red John, in some odd fashion, was responsible for where he was in this moment. Of course, if _not_ for Red John, there would be a different woman in his arms right now.

Emphatically, he stopped that train of thought. It was painful, confusing, and it made him feel a little ill.

Instead, he turned his focus back to Lisbon's warm weight, letting her softness chase his demons away.

Really, as petite as she was, she had no business being a police officer. She should have been a lawyer, or gone into some other profession where she could help the greater good without putting herself directly in the line of fire.

She shifted against him, letting out a quiet breath, and his eyes were drawn to her lips. With a start, he realized he had yet to kiss her properly.

He had kissed her forehead and her hair. He had touched his lips to her temples and her unresponsive hands while she lay unconscious. But he still didn't know what it was like to feel her sigh against his mouth, to taste her.

It was something he needed to remedy.

Without really deciding to, he brought his hand to the side of her face, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone until he saw her lashes start to flutter.

Sleepy green eyes opened, confused by the sudden interruption of slumber. She propped herself halfway up on her elbow.

"Jane?" she murmured. "What's wrong?"

He ran the tip of one finger across her lips. "Are you ever going to call me Patrick?" he asked.

And then he kissed her.

For a moment, she didn't respond, surprised by his unexpected action. He knew the exact instinct her brain figured out what was going on; her lips moved on his slowly at first, wonderingly, and then she pressed herself against him earnestly, hands sliding into his hair.

There was no question of doing this in half measures.

He coaxed her into opening her mouth fully, and the first real taste of her made him groan. When she pulled back, gasping, he moved his attention to her jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses down to her collarbone.

She tugged on his hair, bringing his lips back to hers. He gave her what she wanted, hands sliding under her shirt to trace patterns on her bare back. She shivered restlessly.

Sliding his hand forward, he traced the underside of one breast, and she moaned, instinctively trying to push herself further into his touch. After nine years, he was in no position to deny her anything.

With a few quick movements, he tugged her shirt off, breaking the connection their lips had made for the first time, hands cupping her fully.

"Oh, God," she whispered, leaning down and kissing him again. He indulged her briefly before slipping his hands down to her waist, pulling her forward until he could take the hardened peak of one breast into his mouth.

She trembled, hands in his hair again.

Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled them, coming out on top. As soon as they had stopped moving, she grasped the edge of his shirt, pulling it over his head.

The first contact of skin to skin took both their breaths away. Her heart was pounding wildly under his hand, and as he traced his fingers down her bare arm, he noticed they were trembling.

He kissed her neck, taking a deep breath before carefully slipping his hand beneath the waistband of her pajama pants. When he touched her, when he felt how ready she was, he groaned.

She grasped at his hips. "Patrick," she breathed, in between frantic kisses, "we can do slow later." Her small fingers wrapped around him, and he bit down on his back teeth, fumbling for control.

"Yes, dear," he breathed, his thumb doing something that caused her to cry out sharply.

With frantic movements, the rest of their clothing was shed. Kneeling between her legs, he paused to kiss her again.

"I love you," he whispered. It was a cliché time to tell her, but he couldn't help it.

She smiled, and he knew in that moment the past decade of his life had been leading him to this moment. "I love you," she murmured back, hand resting on his face. He kissed her palm.

Time ceased to exist for an indefinite period. There was nothing outside of them, outside of deep kisses and taut muscles and stuttering heartbeats.

Her short nails raked his back, her hips rising to meet his. Their heavy breathing sounded loud in the quiet of her room.

"Patrick," she gasped, voice rising. "Patrick!"

She convulsed beneath him, and he stayed with her, almost panting, the pressure building until he buried his face in her neck, groan muffled against her skin.

Later, he laid in her arms, his head pillowed on her chest. One of her arms was around him, and he was distractedly playing with her other hand.

Several times, she had traced her thumb over the indentation where his ring used to be, but had made no comment.

As dawn broke, she drifted off, and he switched their positions, cradling her head against his chest. It was the most peaceful sunrise he had seen in what felt like forever.

They would make it, he promised himself. Whatever they had walked through to get to where they were in that moment…it had been worth it.

He lightly kissed the top of her head, drawing the sheets further over her bare shoulders. With a deep, contented sigh, he leaned back into the pillows, closing his eyes.

He slept for the next ten hours, dreamlessly, peacefully, perfectly.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: **Last real chapter, but there'll be an epilogue shortly.

Also, I had some writer's block during this chapter, so I decided to solve it by drinking approximately fifteen cups of coffee. Whee!

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. I wish Bruno would use some of my ideas though. Especially the ones that involve Jane and Lisbon being in bed together. Ahem.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Chapter Thirteen **

Daylight was streaming through the windows when she woke for good. Jane was wrapped around her, the sun glinting off his curls. His left hand, pressed over her heart, was warm without the unyielding circle of metal she had grown accustomed to.

He had taken it off. He had actually taken his wedding ring off.

The part of her brain that was a detective noted that men took off their wedding rings before embarking on affairs. She knew that Jane still told women who made advances towards him that he was married.

However, the rest of her, the part that had been waiting for this day for almost a decade, knew that, because it was her, it meant much more.

She was still a little shocked at last night's turn of events. She had gone to sleep, content as she had ever been.

And then Jane had woken her with soft brushes of his thumb across her cheek.

Euphorically, she smiled.

What had happened had been totally unexpected. And once his lips had touched hers, totally unavoidable.

As often as she had thought about it (and she had thought about it an awful lot), none of her fantasies had come close to matching the reality of what it was like to actually make love with Patrick Jane.

It could have been the anticipation, the wait. Or it could have been the fact that Jane was mind-bogglingly intuitive. Whatever it is, she didn't care. All she knew was that it was going to be impossible to ever be with anyone else.

Not that she was _intending_ on ever being with anyone else.

They hadn't discussed it, not even once, what their future plans would be. Regardless, she would fight to keep him.

Jane's fingers tightened unconsciously on her hip for a moment, and she smiled again.

Hopefully, she wouldn't have to fight that hard.

After a while, using small, careful movements, she unwound herself from his embrace. He hardly stirred, and she smiled at his sleeping form. After nine years of insomnia, he had a lot of catching up to do.

She dressed as silently as she could, and headed to the kitchen. Her legs ached slightly, reminding her that she had used muscles last night that had been dormant for quite a while. When she was in the bathroom, she had noticed some rough, red abrasions on her face. It was absolutely ridiculous how pleased she was by the evidence of Jane's kisses.

She sipped her coffee leisurely, curled up on the couch. She thought about turning on the television, but she was loath to disturb the peace of the room. In the past week, she'd had precious few moments of tranquility to herself.

Instead, she thumbed through a novel she had begun months ago and hadn't had time to finish, the crinkling of the pages the only sound in the room.

A few hours later, she heard the distinct noises that told her Jane was finally awake. Sure enough, he wandered down the stairs in his pajama pants, bare-chested, hair a wild mess. She found it was a look she very much preferred on him, especially since she was the one responsible for it.

"Good morning," he said, smiling rather sheepishly as he crossed the room to sit on the couch beside her. He looked younger, she decided, much more at ease.

"It's afternoon," she informed him, smiling back as he pulled her feet into his lap.

"You know, you could've woken me up," he told her.

"But you're so cute when you're sleeping," she deadpanned.

They were silent for a few minutes, Jane tracing the arch of her foot with his thumb. He looked contemplative, and she could have sworn there was a trace of a blush on his cheekbones. "I'm sorry for…uh…jumping you last night," he finally said. "It was sort of out of nowhere."

She snorted. "Yeah, because I'm complaining and everything. In fact, whenever you get that urge again, feel free to act on it."

He grinned broadly. "I'm fairly certain you'll regret telling me that," he smirked. He leaned over and kissed her lightly. "So…we're alright?" he asked.

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Why wouldn't we be?"

Jane shrugged. "I have no idea. Maybe that's the problem. I have no idea what happened this past week. Everything just sort of changed, and changed very quickly."

"Hm," she said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Did it? I mean," she added before he could speak, "obviously there are aspects of our relationship that are totally different now than they were before. But it's not like I suddenly developed feelings for you a few days ago. We just started…acting…on them."

"You know, Lisbon, you might be right," he said slowly. Then he laughed. "Someone is going to be making a lot of money off the office pool."

"What?" she demanded. "What office pool?"

His grin widened. "The office pool where people are betting whether or not we're sleeping together."

"You're kidding. People are actually betting on that?" She thought for a moment. "Rigsby and Cho are behind it, aren't they?"

He mimed zipping his lips shut, and she swatted him with a throw pillow. Laughing, he snatched it away from her. "What's on the agenda for today?"

Her Saturdays were usually laundry or cleaning days, assuming she wasn't working a case. In the afternoons, she would try to make it to mass somewhere, the idea being that she could then sleep in Sunday.

On that thought, she traced her collarbone, instinctively searching for the comforting weight of her cross. It still wasn't there, and she frowned.

Jane's eyes followed the movement. Suddenly, they lit up with understanding. "Stay put," he told her, putting her feet down and swinging up from the couch.

She heard him in her bedroom, heard the rustling of clothes and the distinctive sound of a zipper opening.

Then he was back, crouching in front of her. "I have something for you," he said, smiling with anticipation.

Her stare was blank. "What?"

"Hold out your hands," he instructed, "and close your eyes."

Shaking her head, she did as she was told. Something light and cool dropped into her upturned palms, and her lids snapped open.

She gasped. Her necklace sparkled back up at her, chain coiled around it. She touched it with reverent fingers. "How?" she asked, looking at him with her heart in her eyes.

His smile was tight around the edges. "Red John sent it to me," he said. "It's been in one of my pockets ever since. I've been meaning to give it back to you, but it keeps slipping my mind."

Impulsively, she took his face in her hands and kissed him. "Thank you," she breathed. "You have no idea what this means to me."

"If you're interested in showing me how much," he murmured, eyes glinting, "I think I can come up with a few suggestions."

Her response was lost in his kiss.

Later that afternoon, he dutifully accompanied her to church, despite her assurance that he didn't need to.

She had been to mass countless times in her life, but never once had her heart pounding the way it did that day. She felt a little like Hester Prynne, branded by a scarlet letter. The fact that no one knew what she had done was no comfort at all.

Her fingertips touched the basin of holy water, and she was frankly surprised she wasn't struck dead. Jane's hand on her back told her that he knew exactly what she was thinking, and she realized that he had insisted on coming with her tonight because he was worried about her reactions.

Throughout the service, he held her hand, thumb rubbing soothing circles on her skin whenever her grip tightened after a new wave of guilt.

But she made it through, letting out a deep sigh of relief after the final hymn ended. It wouldn't be so bad next time, she knew.

It was just going to take some time for her to reconcile her faith and her actions, to stop thinking that she was about to be offed by a lightning bolt.

And as Jane smiled reassuringly at her as they descended the steps at the entrance to the church, she knew that she would make it back.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

She went back to work the following Tuesday with only light gauze covering his healing wounds. They had started to itch like hell, and it took a supreme act of willpower to keep from touching them.

It felt good to walk in the building again, gun holstered and badge in place. Very few people knew the truth about her injuries. The team, at Jane's suggestion, had put the story around that Red John had staged her attempted suicide as a way of playing with their minds. It wasn't a stretch to believe.

The first thing she saw when she pushed open the door to her office was Jane, lounging on the couch. They had ridden separately to work that day, Lisbon wanting to maintain as much professionalism as she could.

The second thing she saw was a bouquet of roses on her desk. Her breath caught. She couldn't remember the last time she had gotten flowers for anything. There had been a few occasions when she was in college, and then a few more when she was an inspector, but none since she had joined CBI.

She had tried to scoff at the tradition since then, but there had still been a part of her that ached with jealousy.

"Well?" Jane said, gesturing at her flowers. "Are you even going to smell them?"

Fighting the sudden moisture in her eyes, she reached for the card that peeked out from the blooms. _Welcome back_, it read. _I love you._

He had signed it _Patrick_.

She decided to make a point of calling him by his first name, at least when they were alone.

Grace stuck her head into the office then, eyes going wide at the sight of the flowers.

"Wow, boss," she said appreciatively. "Those are gorgeous."

Lisbon smiled. "Yes," she agreed. "They definitely are."

"Who are they from?" the redhead wanted to know, one corner of her mouth tilting up slightly.

She hesitated, not sure of her answer.

"Her boyfriend," Jane replied. "The man definitely has good taste."

Grace couldn't even start to hide her smile.

After she left, Lisbon turned to stare at Jane. "Are you my boyfriend?" she asked.

Jane blinked. "Aren't I? You're not dating anyone else, are you? Don't tell me I've been acting under false pretenses all this time."

She snorted. "All this time? All…what, five days?"

He widened his eyes innocently. "We've lasted longer than most celebrity marriages," he pointed out.

Deciding to ignore him, she leaned forward and inhaled. The roses smelled divine. "Thank you," she said softly, sincerely.

"You're very welcome," he replied, a smile in his voice.

She peered out into the bullpen in an attempt to hide her idiotic grin. Cho and Rigsby were staring towards her office with identical expressions of disbelief, while Grace gestured emphatically with her hands as she spoke.

"Congratulations," Lisbon said. "You've managed to give us away already." She checked her watch. "Wow. I think I've been here for about seven minutes. That has to be some sort of record."

"Meh," he said, close behind her. She hadn't even heard him stand up. "They were going to know anyway." He waved cheerfully at the team, and they hurriedly turned back to their desks.

She couldn't help but chuckle.

"See?" Jane said. "It's funny. Besides, one of them just won money."

Right. That damn betting pool. She had almost forgotten. Frowning, she started to pull the blinds closed, but abruptly stopped halfway through.

He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Oh, God," she said. "I can't ever have the blinds closed when you're in here again. They'll think we're making out or something."

His laugh was loud and uncomplicated. "If only that would be the case, my dear." Still chuckling at her expression of horror, he finished closing the shades.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He smiled dangerously, taking her hips in his hands. "I feel the strong urge to kiss you right now, and I didn't think you'd want the rest of the team as an audience."

The appropriate thing to do, the professional thing, would have been to inform him that their personal life should have no place in this office. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"Well?" she said, brazenly. "Are you going to kiss me? Or are you just going to talk about it?"

She could feel his smile the entire time he proved to her that, indeed, he was perfectly capable of action as well.


	14. Epilogue

**AN:** Here it is – the end! This is short, but I've packed enough fluff in it to choke the proverbial horse. Like…fluffy fluff.

A massive thank you to everyone who stuck with me start to finish, and to everyone who reviewed. It's been fun…maybe we'll do it again sometime!

**Disclaimer**: Patrick Jane is owned by The Powers That Be, of which I am not one. Sadness.

**Burnt Offerings**

**Epilogue **

Six months after they had officially began their relationship, Teresa had come to him one night with tears in her eyes and a rapidly thudding heartbeat.

"What?" he'd asked, taking her cold hands. "What happened?"

He would never forget the look on her face when she'd told him. "I'm pregnant," she breathed.

There had been a few moments of utter shock. Thoughts spiraled rapidly through his mind, thoughts like _so that wasn't the flu, then_, or _so much for precautions, _and even _forty-three is a little old to be a father again, don't you think?_

Overwhelmingly, however, there was joy.

"You're sure?" he asked.

She nodded, looking intently at him. "I went to the doctor this morning."

He frowned. "You told me you were going shopping for new running shoes."

She shrugged helplessly. "I wanted to know for certain before I told you."

Abruptly, he pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. She hugged him back, fingers digging into his back, and he knew she was still more than a little unsure about her news. "This is a good thing," he whispered. "The very best thing."

She pulled back, eyes large. "Do you mean it?"

Carefully, reverently, he rested one hand on her lower abdomen. "I mean it."

That night in bed, he brought up the subject of marriage for the first time. In fact, he told her categorically that before their child was born, he wanted matching rings on their hands.

She had resisted a little at first, calling him old fashioned, but learned the next day that it was impossible to say no to Patrick Jane wielding a diamond while down on one knee.

And so they had been married in a very simple, very small ceremony, right on the beach.

Strange thought – he had been married to Angela for less time than he had spent hunting down her killer. He now had the opportunity to be married to Teresa for the next thirty or forty years. Something seemed almost off about it, but he supposed it was the guilt speaking again.

Even though he was happy, happier than he had been in a decade, he still dealt with some of the same demons. He had his dark days, times when all he wanted to do was brood.

Teresa understood, still working through some of her own problems. They would sit together, fingers laced, content in the knowledge that someone would be there waiting when they came through the other side.

It made their relationship stronger.

Seven months after their wedding, he held his son for the first time, not bothering to hide his tears.

Teresa watched them both with moisture pooling in her own eyes, her ring glittering in the overhead lights of the delivery room.

"Are you going to let me hold him at all?" she asked, lips turning up in a very affectionate smile.

He leaned his face as close as he could get to his son. "Tell Mommy that Daddy is busy figuring out how best to spoil you."

The newborn cracked his eyes enough to peer at his father. Deciding that sleep required more of his attention, he closed his lids once more, making a contented noise and curling into the warm arms that held him.

He would never know how many dark and difficult roads his parents had travelled to make it to this one moment, how many mountains they had climbed, with and without the other.

All he knew was that he was full, he was sleepy, and he was loved.

And really, what else was there?


End file.
